THE GIRL WHO ADORED SIMON TEMPLAR

For Roger Moore...In Memoriam

On Saturday early evenings
she dressed up
in white frills and lace
and styled her golden hair
into loose ringlets
piled high.
She tidied her bedroom,
scattered cushions on the bed,
then turned on the TV
to watch "The Saint"

Outside, the family
barbequed without her.
They knew it was pointless
to even ask.
She wouldn't be hungry,
not on this day of the week.
The noisy jocularity in the garden
fell on deaf ears. "The Saint"
was just beginning.

The TV lit up the room
behind closed blinds.
Her flushed cheeks glowed.
She was no longer the shy, unremarkable schoolgirl
when he spoke in his Oxford accent
to her and her alone.
She was suddenly all woman: sensual, seductive.
Something had changed forever.



And...oh, how the vowels of his name
still smoulder
like molten embers through her life -
even now, in the tragic wake
of his passing on.
Ah, such poignant, exquisite legacy...