URSULA

URSULA

Ursula is nothing now but a broken, worn out spring.
The spinning top and setting sun
Remember her when day is done.

Past promises step aside, nothing is permanent
And the fire burns in the attic of her sevenfold covenant.

I had a night with her, an evening sweet between the sheets
Of a million insecurities.
And I know her well enough to know
Her anguished pain at passing time.
When leaves turn the color of September sighs,
And tall trees bend in the wind of sure infinity.

Far reaching consequences follow everywhere she goes,
Down the lovely rain drenched streets of pride and primrose.

Saviors unsaved lie in the ashes of life’s unwritten page,
And bats in the belfry fight the timeless war of age.
October in Paris, December in Denmark, snow on the panes.
Her life in the crystal ball shows marked signs of strain.

“More, more, more” yell angry fans to her statue on the Champs d’Elysse,
She is the mermaid of the Seine, a prisoner in France,
Still too young to fade away, too elderly to dance.
Her once warm hopes are growing cold,
Her priceless body growing old.
It is time she went on home to her rose gardens
And faced the nights of her life’s sweet autumn.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1980
Revised Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED