Saturday 9 March 2013

On first visiting a Spa - for a 'treatment'

I didn't fit in.
My jeans and fleecy top
was not the garb of design.
The white butterflies around me
were in towelling robes and mules.
The darkened relaxation room
with water trickling,
pipe music piped,
candles and daybeds
oozed cliché calm.
I read 'coded Shakespeare'
with interest but aware,
oh so aware of the 
tinkle laughs and twitter
of my neighbours:
a moth amongst cabbage whites.
Even my drink was wrong,
my black coffee shuddered
in its tea cup amongst
spa water and elderflower.

I was called and guided
along sultry darkened corridors,
the breathy music piped on
subtle, soothing, quiet -
I lay on the operating table
being stroked and anointed,
pampered with care.
The cliché lived on but
the harsh Australian tones 
of the masseuse  didn't fit either.
We laughed a bit,
I was relaxed,
I liked the balms,
My anti ageing unguents
tried their best......
to cancel out 
the birthday reality
of tomorrow. 

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