Slim chance and slovenly dressed: she staggers in tatters
Flattened papers dancing in the light of the window.
Out to the basking sun.
Dining out and burning winters white skin,
Pink blades scrape on barbed concrete kerb
Quietly crushed fragrance smothers
An action to divide attention.
Mention the breeze; cool and fresh beating the confusion.
The place: crowds meet,
Sowing seeds of doubt
Gathering moss like rocks.
Best left alone: judgement seized with aplomb
A stool tipped to falling
Appalling resting place for the morning.
The death of thought and gesture
Crust and crumbs scattered on broken slabs of time
Sick of concern for others
Smothered in tired distress
Placid in tortured beliefs
Crushed whilst standing
Flowers fall on the shallow grave
A crow flies and sits on the waving tree
A spot of rain falls
April 2nd 2017
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright