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Cricket

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It happens in unexpected ways, on lovely ordinary days and quiet bus rides home. Two men discussing cricket.. arguing over points or wickets or whatever it is they do. “My dad loves cricket.” I hear myself say.. to the window.. the girl in the glass.

“Grown men standing around on the grass all day.”

“You’d like it if you understood.” he’d say. So I’d sit a while and listen and watch his eyes glistening, glued to the screen, as he’d try to explain the mind-numbing game.

“Hmmmmm…” I’d say….and he’d wave me away with mock disdain. “You’re all like your mother. Go…play with your hair. Phone your friends and go somewhere.”

“Awe… Dad… don’t be that way.”

“Go on. Go on….and don’t come home too late.”

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Green terrace dream

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Last night my dream was so green. A stone garden terrace at dusk. Him up there, on the phone, while I strolled along the grass below, enjoying the cool evening air.

A building appeared, smooth, austere… and looking inside, I saw a friend there, who waved me in, but I shook my head, no. I wasn’t ready yet, and here’s the strange thing… I turned and stood on a field, beside a large empty board, I felt I had to move.

I pushed it and saw where the shadow fell, but I wasn’t satisfied, and I continued to push and measure the length of the shadows as my arms grew tired and the sun left the sky.

Rose harbour

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Most-Colourful-Beaches-in-the-World-3.-Pink-Sands-Beach-Harbour-Island

Flowing East to moonlight, rose-coloured water and sky. First Autumn clouds sighed. Pink-hued wavelets shone, and suddenly the day was gone as a dark blue curtain fell, and the soft harbour whispered… “touch me.. fall into me, sky…. come share this ink delight.” And so it seemed that heaven and water were one in sweet dark night.

The Last Goodbye

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Drawing of beautiful, sad young woman, titled 'Another Sad Love Song' by Lee WildeAre you staying?” I already knew the answer, the small, chilled word in my chest.

“No. I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

A silent moment there, neither daring to touch the jagged edge. He stared down at his hands, beautiful, smooth. “I just can’t.”

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Waiting for the Storm

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storm

I see you coming South, to the bay. Come, make your way. I’m not scared. I’m waiting. Come, close the distance. Soft licks of air, cool fingers. Come. I breathe you, taking velvet steps toward you, like a cat. I’m here where you can see me, here where you can have me, and I feel you coming… and the clouds roll up beneath us and thundering, you roar…. smashing open the sky and even heaven is crying as we shake the last hours from this day and feel our rain of tears disappear as they fall.

Gone

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Last night in my dreams, I had drawn a tropical storm. Dark, menacing beauty. Gusts of charcoal rendered paper houses ripped and torn.

Then…combing my hair with my fingers. Ribbons of light in a darkened room.

“I have to leave soon.” he said. I already knew. “We could write” he began.

I touched my hands to his lips, “Sssh…” and the blue-grey cotton of his shirt, already feeling him gone.

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Years later. “It was never going to last. We were young.”

“We don’t know that.” he whispered into the phone.

Butterfly

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daylight……………………..
life continues……………………..
glistening blue-grey sea……………………..
glistening dew-kissed grass and trees……………………..
waiting……………………..
still November air and birdsong……………………..
still blue-grey bay and sky……………………..
still without you……………………..
nightfall……………………..

This is a ‘butterfly cinquain’ – a nine-line syllabic verse
of the pattern 2 / 4 / 6 / 8 / 2 / 8 / 6 / 4 / 2

Elevator

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elevator

Elevator. Ascend. Thoughts of… nothing. Then, a friend. Long ago. Soft, ever-present ache. Vhooooooom…. reflected silence, smooth and cool, the back of my hand against the glass. The past is the past is my mountain, my hill, is an undissolved pill without resolution or hint of an end, remembering faces of long ago friends. BING! This is me. I straighten my dress and step out.