An Indiscretion with a Dutch Woman
This woman has a secret. She’s been hit
by a thunderbolt. Lightning. Love
at first sight. A coup de foudre.
Goedemorgen, she says. So even toned.
I nod. I smile. A lack of mutual language.
A smile gets you farther than shoes will a mile.
Wie ben jij en wie heb je in mijn huis toegelaten?
She claps flour from her hands. Dough rising.
I stare, suddenly swept over by muteness.
Smiling. I nod again. I’m an agreeable sort.
On her ring finger, a braided circle of black hair.
Split ends curl into kinks, some into prongs.
Catching flour. Holding dough. She notices
my attention to it, extends her fingers in mock
admiration. Strong. Broad hands to cover
any indiscretion. Van mijn man. Hij is dood.
She looks me over, from shoe to shoulder.
Waarom zijn gekleed als een man? she asks.
Her dress is the colour of mid-blue Delft.
She walks toward me. I smell sage. Sea salt.
We breakfast on bread and sliced cheese
the colour of undisturbed snow. The colour
of her skin. Pure as the milk she pours into
a tall glass. We fall into simple quietness.
And then I catch her glance, For a moment.
She looks away. Those samphire green eyes.
I’m caught. I’m stopped. A coup de foudre.
Written for Miz Quickly’s “Character” prompt and Poetic Bloomings “Pandora’s Box”. Google Translate might be useful. And then there’s this image from Miz Quickly’s prompt also.