It is a song of poems – different parts in different verse throughout a night exchanging stories.
Let me/it, at last, then, rise, buffeted by sound-waves.
The breeze feels like an echo of a cold too cold to bear, as the gull glides on its currents and the waves of winter light.
Each of us with tales ‘n layered lives to be disclosed…
Pied white ‘n dull-green ‘n shim’ring black, treasuring the trove you’ve gathered.
The road’s become community.
The orange-breasted kingfisher keeps the wall in feathers.
I should (someday) write while on that journey.
Quite & very welcome.
Writing about sharing writing.
A place so full and hillside-located; pink, lit, ‘n green.
I used to sit in the wind of the morning, hearing them shout out numbers.
Stillness. So still, so quiet.
The city is mapped.