Doria

Strange how the palms behind me

slowly in the mild air turning

alive on the warm sand

a cavalry of despair.

 

Past the dithering gusts of yesterday now

this other life and the gathering green

of the city and a stunning glimpse

sparkling in the eyes like red cider.

 

Another cloud has brought a different understanding

a broader sympathy

an air of normality

 

and though I count the days through the garden

on the back of my hands damp with expectancy

there is no voice.

 

* the text is mine

Done