Turning

And then there were peacocks
and purple daisies and a labyrinth
with walls half my height;
tiled rooms and castle turrets
and the flowers in the garden
matched the crown on the peacock’s head.
And the sky was outlined by leaves
and then terraces and then women’s hats
against the sun. And I was telling you
about feathers and about orange walls
with green windows. And then I was singing
in a curved room and telling you my worries
and watching the scurrying feet nearby.
And then you were turning, quietly and
surely, blending in with the blue
tiled floor, and I lost you in the crowd
of yellow sunflowers and children in caps.
And then it was only me, flowers to my neck
and fountains drowning out
the seven different languages and the whisper
of you being absorbed, or
of you leaving, for then, it was you leaving and
me letting you go, losing myself
and your outline in patchwork ceramic
and oiled marble, our backs
turned towards the walls.