She is a fugitive
from the muted howls
of traffic,
bloodless as the snow-tinged shards
of a Glasgow morning.
The military click of stilettos
hangs in the bar flavoured air
as red wine flares
across a dark expanse of table,
and a clock protests noon.
A cobra movement
checks pearl nails,
smooths the black skull cap
of hair.
Soon he enters, death-suited,
smiling a salesman`s smile
and she rises in a swirl of winter,
leaving a port-wine stain
and the memory of sunlight
on cold oak wood.
