Coffee in a Crucible

Rosalind sketches a crystalline lattice
for a pattern filmed from diffracted rays.
Chasing shapes, like pups lick their napes
or a sun grasping shadows.

Full moon aperture fleshes still phantoms,
laboured nights collecting in its camera.
Atom squiggles blend with sunspots on her lens,
a breeze from the Seine kindly blows.

Warm in wayward spring,
threading nests with gathered needles and string.
Those finches left with none to bring,
give feathers from their own wings.

Carbon crumb unchanged under pressure,
graphite layers and porous textures zoomed.
Combing dunes, till lunch hour troops
swoop in for a daring rescue.

Heated topics in sugared spoonfuls,
scholars sipping coffee in crucibles.
Glances towards the peaks remind the lab to shrink,
her notes for the week then reviewed.

On a Pyrenean bluff,
threading in her arches worn by the rough.
But we all wear away for what we love,
just ask the history buffs!

And they might start with this paper
published in Nature
on non-graphitising carbons.
Now King's College waits
back across the strait.
She eyes the fog so disheartened...

Rosalind's logbooks shuffled in order,
echoed kiss careering down these corridors.
"Chère mademoiselle, all of Paris bids you well.
The flocks shall foretell your return."

Wet, the wily finch,
lagging by the Seine to highlight his tints.
For we all call ourselves by where we've been,
just like the westerly winds!

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