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.
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.
A day about the harbour. A night around a fire.
Whatever the width.
Three, four, and an Oxford comma.
Anyone for a haiku?