London Poem: Day 41

27 September

The sun bows comfortably overhead.
Unhidden, we wait to allow words to slip
From our lips to awaiting ears.
But it doesn’t mean much.
Love does not cradle such feeble pretenses,
There are only sleepy fillers
In a day too peaceful for words.
It’s all soluble,
But bending over soft roaming arches,
Our eyes follow the convex
so that what we have grows
To twice the size it is now.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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