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.