In beechwood, where we lay

Their carnival departed
leaving tracks deep in the mud
which we skirted before
climbing hills in the rain

The colours were brighter
then than they’re ever likely to be;
The fireworks fizzed like
synapses, water in oil

The marching band came
and went with smiles that broke
my heart; it flooded every pore
of the groaning tarmac

He was real then, when
we hugged him and laughed
at every word, before the
milk regressed into flecks of clotted wrath

It’s always cold here and
that’s why we stay. Our peace
is separate; a microcosm
of shivers and aching smiles.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s