Neville

Girl With a Blue Vase

Girl With a Blue Vase

 

Now, on looking back,

I remember

clearly, how she used

to carry water

from the courtyard,

to her mother’s house

and then back again ..

More than two miles

each way

and every day, in that

tall, salt glazed,

lapis blue, earthenware

pitcher of hers ..

The same one that she

carried home

from the market during

the infamous drought

of twenty sixteen  ..

I also recall, how she

carried it high,

and so finely balanced

upon the pale shelf,

of her naked left shoulder ..

And of how

the sunlight then caught

and played

directly upon the silver

buckles of her

worn leather sandals ..

Indeed those

she would only ever wear

when weaving

her way home through

the scorching

red sand and occasional

contrasting

patches, of respite cool,

crisp, fallen leaves ..

She might find on her

way back again ..

Yes those, which were

once maybe,

old windblown robins

nests stolen ..

From off the branches

of long deceased trees ..

But of course,

they felt, so much kinder

to the feet

of lone travellers than that

way back then ..

Yet were still perfectly

mismatched

and as much out of place

as the girl

with her old blue vase

did sometimes seem ..

And though sad,

I confess, I now see her

far less and then only her

silhouette ..

But hear this, I know

and only too well ..

There is an old blue vase

and a young girl,

still out there somewhere

just waiting to be found ..