Only a whisper from the sea
hidden by knife-sharp sand dunes
lies a redundant Geisha,
her porcelain skin, faded now,
has stood against the ravages of
a thousand climatic tantrums,
as cosseted within her, leather skinned fishermen
closed wearied eyes relishing an evening’s slumber,
on sturdy, varnished bunks.
Oiled sweaters on muscled backs
leaned against her sparkling walls,
next to an open door that always offered a
scarlet lipped smile, as the chore
of mending nets began.
Pipes knocked out on a weathered bench and clenched
between tarnished teeth, puffed tobacco wisps
that snaked into the waving sea grass,
home to busy terns screeching ridiculous warnings
to comrades on the shingle.
Just memories now, she stands alone,
mourning times when she was not only sacred but cherished.
Salty tears tumble down her faded skin,
she dreams of Prince Charming’s kiss,
when life may again breathe through her.
She still has much to offer those who
discover her and confess their love.
Until then she sleeps.