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.
Words with music 
Leave a comment