September

A line ‘tween Autumn/Summer clear.

Pink, Lit, ‘N Green

A place so full and hillside-located; pink, lit, ‘n green.

When’s’t, where’s’t, the poignant pivot-point?

The wind stabs among the players every couple of bars,
a forceful beat formed by the rustle of the trees.

Attention lavished only as your arc falls to conclusion.

A diff’ring
(to the usual) time of day,
adorned with diff’rance.

I used to sit in the wind of the morning, hearing them shout out numbers.

I keep my seat, for now alone, my mind as the morning and the city: awake and peacefully awaiting more.

Finally.

I give voice to her name again, though I do not shift my gaze.

Cities in parallel, blended; the nearer past and ancient times.

Stillness. So still, so quiet.

Told through tense interpretation, their tales light the night and meet the morning.

Exaggerated, fabricated praise.

A day about the harbour. A night around a fire.