Her skin darkens as she salutes the sun,
staring soft from the yoga mat,
sunbeams cast motes of light
across the surface of the Alzou River.

The neighbours collect skulls of the
rabbits they have killed, turning them
to a fortune whilst honouring the dead.
She had forgotten what it meant

to fall into a silence,
to sit and read in an endless afternoon.

The cyclists roam in the crooked streets
of the cliff-side village, the Buddhists
are smoking **** in their hammocks.
She had faltered to a start,

falling into a corset,
to sit on him and kiss his calloused hands.

She had lost herself to advertisements
promoting freedom in a cinematic drawl;
time-lapse pictures and memories
of a summer spent landlocked in defeat.

She has fallen for her music.
To sit and listen to the drumbeat’s awful sin.