You can taste defiance

in her voice

like the bitter tang of Seville

zest. Screaming,

‘I’m pale strawberry!’

 

Fierce barbs have echoed

down the years

resisting casual comments

that suggest ginger,

not Titian red like

 

Pre-Raphaelite muses.

Wide gooseberry grey pupils,

like the texture of heelscrape

on sphagnum  covered stones,

freezes them out.

 

Though she tries

to bleach the ginger,

the stray ends persist.

Not even dyed eyebrows

truly conceal, nor the bronzing

 

cream on cheeks and neck.

The ginger underlayers,

like a soft feline belly,

whisper down her nape.