by Miki Byrne

In a high attic. Under the tilted apex,

She gazed out over the rooftops of Montmartre

And danced en pointe till her toes bled.

She held her arms out, curved like a bow.

Fingers curled as if to cup a vagrant bird.

The white skirt flared like a tulip about her knees.

The window darkened, slow as a dawning thought.

Cats called. Yowling across rain-slipped tiles

and blue clouds grazed the gibbous moon.

He did not come and she awoke.

To one teabag left in the tin

And half a digestive that crumbled like her dreams.

Miki Byrne is the author of ‘Nice bits & Hissy-fits’. She has read her work on TV, Radio and at festivals. She has had work in 25 respected poetry magazines.

  1. #1 by John Ritchie on June 22, 2011 - 8:47 am

    Unrequited beauty. Tragic.


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