Train Ride.

                   

The woman in the seat right next to mine
Displays her pale green fingernails
That signify some danger, or so it seems.

Maybe she serves the horrid Noon Day Witch,
Sated with the blood of reckless children
Who just would disobey;

Or perhaps her hands are breaking into flower
As the train gets closer to her destination
Where her lover waits, his heart a nest of birdsong?

Her snow white face reflects no certain clues,
An impassive mask rebuffing all enquiries,
Keeping the world at bay.

I suspect there are no secrets to impart,
None to set black cats among the pigeons;
She is just a clerk returning home for tea.

But those pale green nails must give me pause for thought.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 18th. - 20th. - 21st. - July 7th. 2015.