By Paul Brotheridge
The first thing agreed upon
Is disaster
Although no-one actually
Spells this out.
Russians find clarity
Uninteresting,
Sell vodka cheap,
But charge the earth for
Happiness.
Anna has married a pedant.
Even so,
She might have survived,
Thinking herself to sleep
While beneath moony snow,
Silvered meadow and stream await
The great thaw…
But Vronsky has waltzed her.
Wax from his moustache
Has ruined at least one pair of gloves.
The man has complimented
Her darkest ruby
Whilst eyeing the vein it obscures,
And her nights have become
Longer.
Longer still, her dreams
Now reaching to Venice,
A sinking city and no place
For the insecure,
Where one day
He will take her
To rediscover boredom
And fall out of love.
But all that is to come.
For now she lies wakeful,
Listening to the distance,
Where a train drags human cargo
On through the night,
Its wheels churning through
Landscape pale as a petticoat.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Paul Brotheridge grew up in South Melbourne, gained a degree in English Literature from LaTrobe University, and lived with his wife and son in the Western District where he taught English and Music, and wrote for private recreation. He settled in Geelong around 1990 where he continues to write poetry and prose.
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