Thursday, 24 November 2016

A poem by Colin Crewdson


Prompts, night flares:
Last night you were blond,
bobbed.  You had a small sharp nose.
You left for Paris.

You walked like a farmer,
solid, mistrustful,
your mind on the technicalities of minutes. 

In the darkest night of grief
you carried off the last light, a thief
softly unbodying herself.

And then:
You leant over
created a bridge over the years
        with whisps of golden hair.
Should I feel grateful?

neurones briefly flash,
as your torch beam
swings by in the dark, randomly. 

Colin Crewdson lives in Devon where he works as an osteopath, after a career in other european and middle-eastern countries. He's been published in Ink Sweat & Tears, The High Window, The Open Mouse and The Journal.

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