Listening for your boots of Spanish leather,
heels worn from years of compas and despair.
I know your beat, your broken harmonies;
they whip like shredded silk, thorn-studded hair
shirts. You’ve reworked martyrdom to cold tease,
partner in a hopeless dance of never.
Last night, aroused by rustling myrtle trees,
I thought I heard you sigh…no? Whenever
such illusions rise, I turn to fairer
game. Your footfall I will hear whenever
I let beauty be in tangled fields of tare
and learn to see past fractured tiles to frieze.
One day, you’ll take those spurs down from the wall;
a final chase, then vanish to us all.
© Elaine Stirling, 2016