Chintz

Chintz

She opened the door,
Her face as hard and lined as slate.

I smiled -
She didn't.

'We saw the sign and wondered?
do you have rooms?'

'Yes, I have two.'

She was guarded,
Suspicious as an old dog
Defending its last dinner.

'Do they have the view?'

Behind the small Welsh B&;B
Armoured mountains rose in defiance
Of the sea.
Sunlight stroked the slopes
With fingers of gold,
That slipped down gently
To tease the lapping water.

'One does, yes.'
Beyond the mouthed words
No movement cracked the slate of her skin.
The edges of those lips must have fed on bitterness
To be so brittle.

We hovered, feeling chilled.
Not yet drawn in
But held fast by need,
And the reluctance to turn back into
The parade of unseen all-seeing eyes
Which lined the street.

Aware of the resistance of rock in her eyes,
We walked inside.

The rooms were large
And weeping with chintz,
Smothering every cushion and curtain,
Carpet and wall
With fat, flaccid pink flowers.
I felt like I was drowning in dripping blooms,
Or worse,
Enfolded, breathless, in an ocean of middle-aged bosom.

Glimpsed through the fleshy pink petals however,
Could be seen some need,
Some primitive desire
For a brighter kind of life.

But I missed the warmth
And later,
With chilly toes tucked under
Thinly flowering sheets,
I thought about the wind-chipped face
Seeping cool indifference at the door.

The room showed touches,
But no touch.

All flowers
And no heart.