The everything of silence

November 9, 2017

Even the crows are bored with today.

The park benches never lost their damp,

like timbers of sunken ships 

stacked against the tarmac paths.


Lunch time doesn't even break

the everything of silence, 

a quietness of a day not paying attention.

The day should have just stayed in bed. 


Colour doesn't work today,

cars and post boxes are not red,

and the grass is as thin 

as the starling's chest.


Desire lines are skipped 

or the telling mud on leather.

While our shadows

stayed at home, 


talking openly of the sun,

to stir the wasps 

amongst the pomegranate trees.

To wish our lives so very far away.


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