It's Still Life

What the Blind See

She is swept by wind and blind as snow, and she sits on a bench that overlooks the sea on Beachy Head.

Hers is a salt-soaked throne facing the horizon and its sun-prism sky, and she stares, steady as a pointing stick, looking beyond what I see and shall not see, beyond the washed stars.

And like chinless men who stroke their beards, she keeps her eyes closed, tight as a banker’s fists, and why, I wonder, would a blind person close their eyes.

I watch her sitting calm as half-light at sunset, her hair a tangling mane in the wind, and if my manners were not an obstacle, and if I were not raised to keep myself to myself, I would’ve asked her if this type of wind-rushed scenery feels like a confined space … or does it feel like a dark womb, or does the sea sound like a snarling orchestra, or does it speak to her like a conversation between a muddled brown confusion of seagulls scooping out divots of sky.

And I pull my hat down over my ears as the weather turns moody as dark eyes, but that woman, she doesn’t seem to notice.

And the world remains blind.

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “type”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.