concrete turned to mud,
and money to kindness,
to time, our clocks run
in hoof-beats,
new heartbeats.
gleaming glass and grey
to fresh new growth,
from the ground and the buds,
moving house like from a city without seasons
to winter and to spring
from threats to promises
of a new world,
one much older and wiser,
one much safer,
unless you fall
head over heels in love,
it is not minutes but river roads
that separate you now.
I walked
the long road home,
where miles feel like minutes,
where blossom is unscented by
putrid fumes,
daisy chains of cars,
not daisy chains of flowers, there,
in the dense smog, hot-headed women
screaming for their children to come home.
but I won't come home, mother
I have a new one now.
Summer 2018
YOU ARE READING
Unbroken • Poetry
Poetryeven the leaves will not break beneath her touch "All art is quite useless." - Oscar Wilde
