turned on tears moving a morning
beyond the view from my window
to views of lives worked together
for better or for worse. I remembered
the first sighting of gothic camellias
cast in sandstone pink, a solid
love of green gloss rushing in. I remembered
then, that green was the colour
of a hideaway bolthole for a child of three
crouching, running, pausing on a grassy
patch of play constructing life in toy clay
Were those your tears, or those of solidarities
shared and lost as life set into stonework? Look.
I tried to say, as the wind picked up and
shadows brightened to lightness ahead.
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