In the dying light.

In the dying light.

Glass drops caught
on bare fingers
rolling down arms
lifted in a poise stilled
to the dying sun, wrapping
sheaths of light
on her skin, splaying by her sides
a dancer frozen mid-spin
jolted, her arms flail
sparkling beads spill
shatter into the ground.


21 responses to “In the dying light.”

  1. And my impressions of your lovely poem, is that in the twilight hours, when the sun is weak, a sudden passing of a bird, maybe rushing off to roost, startles a beaded dancer in mid-step hands over her head. Whatever were your intentions, Rafia, it holds lovely imagery:)

    Liked by 1 person

    • This is a beautiful image you have conjured, I lovee reading such feedbacks, I am always curious about what someone else associate with the written word. Thank you for this Karima ❀


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