Penelope III

A lady.

The only word that suits

the woman in the picture.

Head held high, lips parted,

gazing past me, into…what?

A fur coat draped around her shoulders,

evening gown cut low,

a bare arm crosses,

clutching white gloves

to her breast.

One earring glitters

half hidden by a wave of hair.

Her only jewels.

None others to break

the perfect line

of her graceful Nefertiti neck.

Where were you off to?

The opera? a dinner party?

Self-assured in your elegance.

Proud. Lovely.

Unaware (as we are all)

of what the future held in store.

Few things I know.

Your name.

Penelope.

And then something to do with the sea.

Did your captain roam far and wide

and leave you at the hearth

to weave your web of life,

a web to unravel and begin again

each time that he came home?

Penelope.

The words you have just spoken

are eternally in limbo

never to be captured,

not at least by me.

But is that longing in your gaze

a figment of my imagination?

Or were you also the Lady of Shallot.

Is this the moment when you have tired

of weaving your web,

of seeing the world pass by

only in its mirror image?

Or is that still the future?

Have you already looked down on Camelot?

The End