My street,
on
this Swedish
Spring day,
painted
relentlessly
grey
insists on
a
blue sky
above
grizzled
hues,
nordic
winds
caress my cheeks
I feel blood rushing.
last autumn’s
now
browned
dried
leafs
leave
brittled noises
on the local
thoroughfare
where nordic winds
rush
at earshot speed
crisply
criss-crossed
echos
of
a now
hardened golden brown
last year’s autumn
green shoot
who once stood out on a limb,
fell, sometime ago
intent on
following
the passing of the fall
I saw it rock and roll
to-day
the beautyful meaningless of the everyday
which tends to runaway from us
I heard it tumbling by, I want to hear it again.
I do confess
’tis was silent
when it made
me
turn my head.
It rolled,
leaving
behind
a moment
I can’t forget.