London Poem: Day 275

19 May

Hot and sticky,
Clouds hang sadly,
Like a great quilt
That no one wants,
Draped on the back of a sofa,
Left out for the auntie
Who made it, to see
That it is used.
From those clouds,
Sounds slip down, softly
Whispered, perverting
Space and sound –
Leading us to believe that
Something is there,
That isn’t there at all.
All we can do is ignore
The woven tales, so that
We can tell our own version
In hopes of guiding our day.


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In flux

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