small talk

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

and mud.


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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