Pearls pool in the hollow of her throat
golden curling crown of hair, with ringlet wisps at her ears
her face is turned towards the sun beams
posing for the portrait, she hears the brush sweep against the canvas
smells the paint, imagines herself immortalised
to be fawned over by hearts not yet born
the air around her is like candlelight
and her skin gleams, waxy, despite its itching against the tulle dress
how much longer? she wonders
yet she’ll stiffly sit there all the hour
for the stool is empty
and no easel in sight
she poses for only the evening sunshine
