- SE Coulson
Bea's song
By SE Coulson

Is that you?
nosing along small streets
hunting a gift of precious
pottery,
or textile
evocative to the touch,
so Hungarian
A smile broad like a shoreline,
open
never simple,
generous
sensitive to language, and phrase
mistress of translation
A whole life
An exquisite trail of fascination
maturing into a climbing rose
never to be pruned
soaked with the cool water of Balaton
fragrant of dark-wooded cherry
fruit lovingly preserved
A gaze spilled
like a ewer of playful warmth,
a secret lightly shared.
Hands that speak stories,
aged like textured homespun
heavy with the inevitable.
In translation all those years -
learning, giving,
letting go
the darkness of war
grievous loss
that takes identity with it
etched into Magjar
Soft dark eyes that
morph terror and disappointment
into humble care
voiced every waking moment.
Like a bird
capturing a single ray of light
magnified through the lens
of its soul
No longer in translation
her song is our song
filling the softest moment,
barely illuminating a canvas
with resilience and hope.