There’s a chill in the early morning air.
Light spreads brightly downwards from the wide
fluttering clusters of papery wings,
tangles tongues with rain.
Anonymous at a timeless hour,
pigeons pace like commuters in the station,
detect a rhythm,
diminuendo of minor notes –
no cooing on the telephone wire.
A shadow flits ahead.
Along the crest, wind-whittled hawthorns
anchors in a gale,
flecked with tiny mayflowers, stars in the hedge.
In an attempt to solve the riddle of my soul,
I’ve forgotten about you, well almost, love,
and still you are distant,
full of forgotten faces with which I lace your sleep,
when up sneaks grief,
coming, reconciled with death.
So here is a humble apology:
broken cobwebs steeped in dust
like ravens splashing black crosses in your poetic sky.
A hot-air balloon,
union of verb and noun,
disintegrates silently on the moon,
coming to an…
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