by Elin Lewis
She appears asleep,
lost to us all in stony silence;
hard on the eyes,
bronze-blind and unblinking;
her reflection cast motionless in the water,
silver-faced up to the stars.
In the rain,
the grey angel-face enchants,
salted wounds drip down like silver:
surrendered stars pooling tombstone-grey at her feet.
And you are stuck-still,
frozen in your own soundlessness,
semitone-strange and half-eclipsed
caught in the chord of moonlight,
in the uncoloured cadence of her gaze;
until an owl’s warning releases you…
Her lack of eyes latch onto your step,
haunting each hurried tread that
takes you, trembling to the shadows,
all a-shiver, thankful that
the only eyes on you now are silver
and they will be gone by morning.