A short footing

Wood meets brick on the oddest angle
vested between: a sprig, anomalous anticipation.
I stare hours at a trickle, an osmotic feed,
As I hide along in the atmospheric shade.

Sunlight swells, snuffed by a transient cloud
polishing up the chrome chair, stock of my void.
The hidden sight of thoughts sighs of only prospects,
accepted infinity is lawless, yet I hide here with my friend.

Slowly we wave in the wind, waiting for only a hint of it.
Cursing at the snow that only fell yesterday, ages ago.
Only that morning the harsh need for cleanliness, sterile
drifts for empty spaces, the Gardener rips it out.

Leaving a clean angle, an empty chair, a lawless game of chess.

I fold a small note to my love, who never came and never came back.
I drive it deep between the wood and the brick, arid ground
for loving friends, as time passes, and the clouds roll in to
bring only greys on greys and days of flickering snow…

(c) Casteleijn MG 2017
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