Poetry

In Barcelona

I awoke to see a tall dark beauty standing by the bed. West Indian, perhaps, with high cheek bones, a feather in her stylish cap. Being an aficionado of the Bard I murmured, Oh you wonder, are you a maid or what? Immediately it was clear that she was not. I watched her sliding back into the mirror (a dark shadow) from whence she came. As light insinuated outlines to the room, the wardrobe slowly opened, the mirror turned its back, the space that she had blessed was wholly black. Ron Pretty

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