Thursday, 24 February 2011

Lines on waking

The lines stayed fresh and sharp.
The heavy hand on the counter,
black and white tiles
and the thrown jar
refused to fade
and they coloured my image of you.

In a short step,
we were on the bridge
with it silver paint, rough
over chips and rust.
The tar on the walkway melted in the sun
And an uncharitable stream of the drying river
Carried your memory into my conscience.

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