Saoirse awoke in the sunshine of anarchy..


The shadows fell upon her nakedness

the gaelic female was gentle

as the morning brease

blowing the cotton sheet

upon the seven foot window

below the white linen her pale skin

was a contrast on the sheets of white

from the chair

he had watched her another night.

Coffee he spoke

remembering her preference

having watched her dance

in her dreams

the romance of anarchy

had lost it,s boyish charm

as Nick Drake

come over the player.

Saoirse spoke

sitting up the chestnut hair

fell over her breast

he left the room

in the kitchen

the news talked of

the new Irish freedom.

This was the roots of there

disagreement

he passed her the coffee

sitting on the edge

the double bed

they slurped

lazy bearded long haired hippy
but clean
for ever bathing
yet with knees as rough
as camels”

she spoke.

The broken silence hung

with refraction to the ongoing conversation

it’s an illusion”

that we are free

it’s an illusion”

this thing called love

she kissed

the bearded long haired hippy

saying she was happy

he sat there in the warm embrace

of her soft nakedness

the gaelic female was gentle

as the morning brease.

Blowing the cotton sheet

upon the seven foot window

she stood in front

slipping on her summer dress

then the cotton knickers

she left the room

sitting back in the chair

he contemplated.

Before the silence

one egg or two

solders or straight

butter or margarine

he left and sat on the

fake leather sofa

on the coffee table

was breakfast with more coffee.

it is not a game
it is my perspective”

her mood was reflective

and so they dream

drifting into conversation

like a river flowing

through the city of urban paranoia.

The ebb and flow

of life had passed them

the time stood still

upon the window sill

the roses wilted in the vase

he had bought

them the day before

with fresh mushroom tomatoes peepers

veggie burger mix

that become a shepherds pie.

Saoirse leans forward
and reaches for the coffee again
then stops

looking down

at the book of Motherland.

The photographs of Simon Roberts from his

series Motherland are,

paradoxically, both bleak and raw

not unlike life but he had Saoirse

the utopian dream of anarchy

standing up together

they fell into a embrace

kissing her soft gentle face

they walked to the door

levaeing utopia

into the mid morning sunshine

of may spring day

holding each others hand

so not to lose each other.

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