By Donna Jones.
There’s pounds here in these curved yachts,
In these block penthouses;
Italian leather bags cupping keys, crafted wallets and lip gloss;
Crisp suits, crinkle linen and boating shoes that know they own this walkway.
Make no apologies,
Their presence resonates of cut glass dining.
Even the perfect pitched blue of sky plays cricket with clouds
In whites.
She has a presence of Kashmir and comfortable lounging,
Eating green leaves, one by one.
Age is a guessing game of Botox, facelift and false wig
But they seem happy, laugh together.
