Write it; move on.
Vissuhrah entoombed; brightist star.
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.
I have/I will have written in the waves of echoed song.
A spring begets a stream becomes a river raising tides.
A gradual, rolling rumble from few spots on the horizon brings a chorus for the dawn to sail its orange sunlight o’er.
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…
I sit in soft, surrounded solitude.
I think (/realise).
Pied white ‘n dull-green ‘n shim’ring black, treasuring the trove you’ve gathered.