Real

The Honourable Carolyn Norton’s breath is stilled. Her chestnut-bland hair smooth. Her chestnut eyes, intended to calmly survey the flowers in her middle distance, stutter at a white scrape on her backdrop. Faintly, they cross. Her gentle chin set, she wills herself not to lower their gaze. Not to see the twin daisies, the bud rose wincing away from her scuffed shawl. Her gouged neck.  Her coral cameo’s dishonourable skew toward her left breast. (The one to the viewer’s right.) She’s torn and her canvas is away, so far away from England. Lately, she feels, she’s no longer truly real.