She reads the blue pathways

She was brought up in many languages.
She sometimes translated, sometimes understood
and sometimes left words and ideas floating,
like a known feeling,
like the scent or memory of something
as fresh as pressed lime.

Sometimes deaf,
she would laugh at (but never in) the face which told the joke
or at those who laughed, mistook or got it late.
She would feel for the frown or puzzled eye
that told a sad story in a rack of coloured words.
She could read the down right flicker of an eye
that shyly informs her when one lies,
conceals or embellishes the truth.

Sometimes mute,
She would play an instrumental interlude.
She would be reading the silvery blue pathways
of your thoughts, some arriving like thunderbolts,
some, only brighter, like the brittle flickering finger
tickling the swirling channels of the ear.

Sometimes lonely,
They would wonder why she did not speak?
They wanted her to echo their last syllable.
Some thought she was damaged in the brain or ear
while she was in fact, and all our fiction, conducting -
divining and distilling, siphoning silver thought symphonies
that only some will hear.




90's
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