The Woman in Black

Blonde hair neatly tucked behind an ear,
Sunglasses perched atop her head,
Tall, elegant, lines of simplicity,
My inclination is to glance, and glance again.
I close my eyes and sigh,
For it is rude to stare,
And paint a portait in my head.
I construct her lines and smile,
From fragments of snatched glances,
A memory game, building phantoms,
From light across the room.
No words are exchanged with ghosts,
And I ponder; this picture in my mind,
Is it any more real,
Than the woman in black?
As she turns and walked away,
Receding from my world,
And fading in my heart.

How is your day?

Dying a slow death through inaction,
Whilst people talk about nothing,
Their own aggrandisement,
The only point of consequence.
Well, that and prickly time,
Scratching past like barbed black thorn,
Leaving infectious cuts behind,
Apart from that it's fine.