She sat on a chair in the garden,
Succour for her aching legs.
The vastness of the flower show—
Mesmerising and soul-nourishing,
Marred only by splots of rude brooding
She had determined must be ignored.
She sat on a chair in the garden,
Succour for her aching legs.
He snapped photos on his phone,
Turning it this way and that.
She gave him her practiced smile,
Gracious and elegant all at once,
Masking the aching in her heart.
When finished, he went off to find the bar.
She sat on a chair in the garden,
Succour for her aching legs.
She closed her eyes for just a moment
To still her tired heart.
“Madam, we are closing the show,”
Security roused her at last.
The street lamps had come on;
He was nowhere to be found.
She trained her eyes around,
Then made her way to the big red bus.
She sat on a chair—not in the garden,
But seeking succour for her aching legs.
He drove off without her,
But she found peace on the tracks;
Thank God for the trains.
He took her photo to the studio,
Printed it and bought a frame.
She saw it on the dining wall
One day just before the guests.
They admired and they gawked,
Between mouthfuls of tasty food;
Said it was spectacular, and that—
But she remembered the afternoon,
She sat on a chair in the garden,
Seeking only rest for her legs.