An accordion and a clarinet once danced together before a set of drums, and the aural ghost of their exchange is frenzied as it floats around the café room.
The wind stabs among the players every couple of bars,
a forceful beat formed by the rustle of the trees.
I keep my seat, for now alone, my mind as the morning and the city: awake and peacefully awaiting more.
I give voice to her name again, though I do not shift my gaze.
The Floating Harbour shall be under a Free Culture license.
Exaggerated, fabricated praise.
For All The Syllables, The Words…
Written between January, 2016 and August, 2019.
And all is rather still.