London Poem: Day 356

8 August

The day is delicate,
And you move like
Thin fingers spread
Over untouched water;
The ripples open up with
A great rustling yawn,
Slow at first,
To sway with the rhythm
Of the day, already
Slipping safely away.
To forget the hours before –
The spring and the lay –
Prompts the mind to build
New fantasies as the gusts
Build new hunger.
Allow the world, in all its
Ignorance, to blind your
Eyes to the cold squeeze
Of the rolling days.


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