Sunday, 3 February 2013

Wednesday in Late Winter

All the crazy action
of the day subsides
the hurry edgy flurry
now slow ebb tides
no hints of echoes
from a last goodbye
just a rumour  of a wing tip
Sound of swish flying by

Cold grey night time
clouds in the sky
street light shadows
hit the road passing by
armies of driftwood
in the city streams
seem to whisper a story
of unsung dreams

Nobody hanging out
for one second more
not bothering to try
another half closed door
just keep on moving
to a well hidden space
maybe rest for a while
without leaving a trace

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