Aberystwyth, February 1978
Standing at the brink
in off-brand corduroy, dyed wool
picking apart the sunbeams
with your one hand slowly
closing.
The funicular sings silent
the third curve of dust-white
aggregate is steeper still
and behind you lies
the vast bowl of swallowed
time, the shattered stopwatch
shards hanging loosely
quivering swords
over ripped Polaroid.
You drop the ...
Tuesday 22nd February 2022 11:33 pm
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