She’s dyed her hair, one last shot ‘cross the bow
of age, the pepper and the salt repressed,
unseen, although she knows it suits her now.
A special niece is wed, she looks her best.

Scant few have yet arrived, and so alone
she sits, as I forecast the view I need
to shoot the groom and bride. I turn. I’m blown
apart by eyes that seek mine, and succeed.

She often looks her best in red. Tonight
she highlights just her lips, the rest is blue.
The chandelier seeks out her eyes with light,
her sapphire drops, her azure blouse shine through.

Defences I have none, so magicked in her trance.
Near forty years, she’s tamed and held me with her glance.
 

                                   5 December 2023