Woman with Parasol

A woman framed by her parasol.
She drapes a shawl around shoulder,
A shadow consumes her. The March clouds
Gather about her, though flecks of azure
Crack open like porcelain eggs. Her coats
Are fastened tight, fabric buttons blight
There way from neck to navel. Her skirts
Shush, swish, carry a sea-tide behind her,
A trail, a past. They blow out on occasion,
An air balloon blast about her. The wet
Sleet has blackened her edges, a chimney
Sweep colour. The chignon auburn of her
Hair is swept under the tight ribboned
Grasp of the pill-box, but wisps and
Russet locks fall on her neck, on her dress,
Like secrets.
She walks over Magdalen
Bridge; the murk of the Cherwell sweeps
Underneath her feet. Towards the women’s
College she attends, towards the restrictions
They put on her, decorum like corsets.
Gentleman pass her. Some raise their hats,
Others give a lascivious glance over
Moustachioed mouths. Once she sought
Such glares. Once they vivified her, picked
Her out of the Monet streetscape, beyond
Impression to concrete. She now keeps
Her eye upon the pavement. She marvels
At the glistening balusters, moss covered,
Along the bridge and the black iron lamps that
Remain unlit. She observes the skies'
Tumult. She fingers an imagined ring.

P. Viktor

If you've any comments on this poem, P.Viktor would be pleased to hear from you.