Sunday 17th August



After the ironing is done she wraps herself in shadow & sits silent still beneath a sleeping birdcage, concealed in the rhythm of dripping pot plants. Watching the night & all it’s radiant drunks, hold hands, kissing staggered smiles of summer romanced distractions slipping past her night garden without bothering to look in see her sat alone, absorbing light, black as stone.
She must’ve (did she?) see  me glance in at her, catch her in her shadowland attracted to her silence slipped between the potted wonders of her garden, perfume masked by the sweet warm embrace of fresh pressed linen. Will I feature in her log of people grooves tonight, will I loose some of my light to that discrete meticulous unwavering iron stare? Will she smooth out all our wrinkles in exchange?


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