Hoisted
Three a.m. Silk sweeps my skin like
a lover’s exploring hand.
We spin and whirl, not wanting
the night of the Ball to end,
you in your tails, I in my heels,
under the crescent moon.
My dress thrills
to the wind’s sudden stir,
fills like a parachute,
snatches me up.
Its sash hooks over
the moon’s thin horn,
leaves me dangling under the stars,
watching your face grow small.
Gill McEvoy
Love it! Fine images appear in my mind when reading this, love how the wind fills the dress like a parachute and ‘snatches me up’. Lots of lovely movement. Of course, there may be hidden meanings in this poem which I’m not getting, but then I’m not so good at picking out the underlying meanings in poems!
Lots of lovely images and movement, Gill, like Sarah says.
‘Hoisted’ made me think ‘by your own petard’ but I couldn’t quite see how that fits the beautifully surreal image of dangling from a crescent moon by a sash. Or the sadness of the final line.
Hmm., titles are never my forte….
Thank you both very much for your comments!