Trapped in Time?

“O Beauty, find thyself in love, not in the flattery of thy mirror.” Rabindranath Tagore

car crashIt must have been fifteen years ago. And there’s a question that teases me still: how did I miss that lamppost and avoid galloping on to the pavement?

It started with a vision, you see, jogging at a snail’s pace across the road, ignoring the green-light inviting me on. A feminine feast for the eyes; lower half encased in tight stretchy material with a divine upper-body in an equally sheath-like tee-shirt.

How shall I compare thee … to a traffic light?

No comparison, really, one’s a mechanical device for keeping cars flowing through town and, of course, the other a biological entity enjoying a fleeting beauty capable of immediate attention. My memory replays fluid motion in black spandex, taut buttocks with a ripple of firm smooth muscled thighs. I can’t forget the pastel upper-body displaying a hard-to-surpass mixture of content and barely controlled motion. [pause while I bite my knuckle]

Flowing and Knowing

She knew, of course she did. The set of her face, a flashing sideward glance, an indifferent stiff-lipped mouth, childlike self-awareness: aware of appreciation and pretending not to notice. She’ll be with me forever but …

All that Glisters

My mind draws back and thinks of beautiful interiors: of people I have known, some no longer with us. Of character, presence, humour, friendship, discovered worth. The loving hug of a grandchild who doesn’t care about wrinkles or wobbly bits. And what about the catalyst of humorous exchanges and tough times all building strong relationship links between people of all ages? Then there’s the earned respect of people who‘ve taken the trouble to know me.

Red, Red Rose

Seductive power is hard to deny. Such admiration can focus where it will: on a red, red sports car or a visual delight in spray-on lycra. Yet there’s no denying that, while an attractive package is always a bonus, it’s the content within that enriches one’s life.

I’ll never forget my vision in Spandex and I’ll never know what the light behind her eyes offered. Amber-trapped in my memory, she remains an image, her humanity and personality unknown: pretty as a picture … empty as a drum?

Mac Logan
©