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Lauris Edmondonline works |
Going to Moscow The raspberries they gave us for dessert were delicious, sharp-tasting and furry, served in tiny white bowls; you spooned cream on to mine explaining I’d find it sour. The waitress with huge eyes and a tuft of hair pinched like a kewpie so wanted to please us she dropped two plates as she swooped through the kitchen door. No one could reassure her. Snow was falling; when you spoke, across the narrow white cloth I could scarcely hear for the distance nor see you through floating drifts. Then the tall aunt brought out her dog, a small prickly sprig like a toy; we put on our coats and in the doomed silence Chekhov the old master nodded at us from the wings. At the last my frozen lips would not kiss you, I could do nothing but talk to the terrible little dog: but you stood still, your polished shoes swelling up like farm boots. There are always some who must stay in the country when others are going to Moscow. You eyes were a dark lake bruised by the winter trees.
©Lauris Edmond |
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