Woodlands Street 31, says Google maps,
the flora where hyacinths grew. She chose
the one-bulbed blue, to scent her Spring.
 
I scan her limbs- decorated flutes, creamed
to conceal. Her cheekbones look rouged,
forehead is sheathed by bangs. Paucity
in her eyes trace weeds invading her patio.
Sidewalks are still-born against unlit bulbs.
A stool, a ladle, the brolly in the storeroom,
I recognise the murmur of defeat even as
she re-arranges books with thick spines.
Darkness echoes under the shuttered sky.
His assured chuckle licks the ceiling, lips
breathe defiance in the handcuffed air.
 
Morning downpour soaks her weathered
frame, her skin blooms cobalt to crimson,
in a dance of the hyacinths.