bresmithstudio.net -  writing and illustration
TIME

Time - still me
Nothing will touch me again
High , I swing in mid air,
suspended, vulnerable on my silk strand
the wind to break ? or to carry me
Free- to a new place ?

DESERT BLOOM

No life signs
Bare, arid, dry attrition
Scorched mind
Scorched heart
In time
Tiny droplets percolate,
Swell dessicated grains with hope to grow.

THE BLACK BAG

Hard frost,
Crisp air,
Late.
Brake pads grate, door slams shut
 and then I see.... smell....
the black bag,
smouldering heap of black char, half-burnt remnants,
from where ? we ask each other airing displeasure.
I poke the contents for some answer-
flame sculpted ugly mess.
Enquiries reveal the early morning presence of a man
unknown and doorway slept,
an invisible shadow- moved on now, like the lazy rising smoke,
who in his freezing ,waking hour, found comfort in the refuse.
I turned his image in my mind and doused the grey-black ash to melting pools,
my anger softened.


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