The piece of short fiction I was writing Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt is a sequel to the story I wrote for my own microfiction challenge (yes, I do them too), so it doesn’t stand alone. This is a poem I wrote yesterday though, that might fit the bill instead.
The air is black between us,
though honeysuckle hangs unseen,
and all the birds, down-soft, song-sweet,
are fluttering with the pinking clouds.
Mist hangs like shrouds, or is it sails?
of that ship we were meant to take
across a corrugated tarmac sea,
nailed down and charted every inch,
to that ‘place for us’ we’ll never see.
I could smell its fullness, rich and sharp,
Of sun-bathed earth as green as life
and apples, running silver rivers-laced,
but you never said, I never knew
what engines, whirring cogs and gears
criss-crossed that paradise of yours.
The air is black, not dusky…
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