It was an hour before. Hearts raced. People looked at the sky. This year, perhaps this year? The gates opened. So did the heavens.
Poems tell the truth
Like cherry blossom falling
On cold Spring mornings
Lace underwear clouds thrown over the lightbulb moon; the streets are camouflaged in fancy dress. Two figures, fingers interlocked.
Ice maiden, ice warrior, ice princess: names signifying distance and threat. But yours were the hands that staunched my wounds.
They walked from the foot of the hill to its head. Nobody had told them the volcano was still live – and then the mouth
All that is left of the old city wall is a brass strip in the road. People fought and fell for this line. I step on it each time I pass.
I caught the paper plane as it glided past. Confused, I unfolded it & lay it flat. The pencilled letters were stark: “Let me fly”.
I missed the 8 so got on the 9. Then, I understood numbers better than bus routes. Close numbers don’t go to almost the same place.
Jon looked down. His ring was missing from his hand. So was his finger. Then, with the pain, the memory flooded back.
First the electric scent of the burning sand as the greasy black clouds roil up from the sea horizon.
Then the hiss of the rain hitting the beach and the steam and the smell of the earth beneath the sand.