
In beechwood, where we lay
Their carnival departed
leaving tracks deep in the mud
which we skirted before
climbing hills in the rain
The colours were brighter
then than they’re ever likely to be;
The fireworks fizzed like
synapses, water in oil
The marching band came
and went with smiles that broke
my heart; it flooded every pore
of the groaning tarmac
He was real then, when
we hugged him and laughed
at every word, before the
milk regressed into flecks of clotted wrath
It’s always cold here and
that’s why we stay. Our peace
is separate; a microcosm
of shivers and aching smiles.
#365DaysOfPoetry