I can hardly speak but I will try.

My brain falls silent, still;

It is the dying of the day

When a ferment  of tenses

Lead me up many cul de sacs. 

Lingering a moonlight-figure

Mirrors the sparkling frost,

He's gone but never lost.

Suspicious of the silence within,

Outside all is wild, the colour of blood

Soaks the sky.

On a barge meandering down the river

On a bright mid-summer morn

I hear peals of girlish laughter

Echoing from the banks

Passing under metal bridges ladies

Quiver their parasols, men in top hats,

Like well-paid actors in a film about rivers,

Are over balancing and falling into the river

One after another as if this was a deliberate

Act of mass suicide. Which it is.

Bodies splash into the sweet scent

Of grass newly cut and just

Forty-two years old and gloriously confused

She removes her shoes and happily remembers

That wildfires can’t be bought or sold

So, her yearning, is born again.