In the silence of longing which tilts uphill towards us,

empty as early light,

the approaching maybe of a single car,

maybe a Toyota, an Audi, an old Ford,

maybe someone hoped for,

a single wave folding the air towards us, as a rush of falling shingle,

falling and falling in a long roll of water, the

fall of the coming car which flees towards us

as if we’re a solution.

 Then falls beyond us,

taking everything, sound and light and loose gravel;

my hand half-raised in the dapple of the avenue.


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