From here we can follow him outside, where it is a bright day.
It is the leaves on the trees that are like music in his mind.
He could dwell long on a few as heart-achingly beautiful.
There is a fashion for one shiny side and one dull.
Many gather together forming ever-changing phantoms.
A good portion of his view consists of shimmering leaves
but we know each and every one will not beat a season.
He considers: our words are no more than leaves on the trees.
He would have all humanity realise our words 
understood as the curious rustling of tall trees.
Returning inside to his beloved, recomposed, 
he is struck by the most beautiful face of the woman
who has uttered the phrase "I'm not the one for you".
As chilling as "May God have mercy on your soul",
as unanswerable as "You're right, but...".
He has heard the phrase before and could shout from the moon
or pen poem after poem from the condemned cell.
But speak he must...

Work In Progress

◄ Your Poetry #2


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