My child

 

Child on a bridge,

pooh sticks cling to

tumbling stream, ponies

snort at dusk, the lanes

tumble into tunnels.

 

Owl calls from oak

high above the house,

her frozen arms outhrown

for centuries, as man

comes and goes,.

 

Child on a bridge,

afternoon is close

and evening stretches

to ensnare us in its

arms of age.

 

Writing on a wall

love lain and lost,

scattered now

amongstĀ  briars,

on solitary island.

 

You searched each

twisted path, but I

had disappeared, flung

away this flesh, melted

in the mist of finite tomorrow.

 

Always,

child on a bridge

leaning into stream

nothing held in mind

except movement.

 

 

 

 

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