Day moves in gently
pushing aside wrinkled sheets
from pinky grey skies
Day moves in gently
pushing aside wrinkled sheets
from pinky grey skies
The sun peaks over
the horizon to check first
night is in retreat
In a shanty town
a battered old typewriter
finds a young poet
Sleep drifts in at last
cat curling behind the knees
book falls to the floor
No social distance
unmasked kids cluster around
cans and bags of chips
Sitting by Costa
somewhere a wife and kid wait
afraid of the streets
Outside Domino’s
close to Sainsbury’s express
hoping for supper
A woman greets me
from her spot on the pavement
hunger in her eyes
A carton of milk
left out for my breakfast
little gift of love
They meet through a screen
whoever they are their smiles
will brighten the day
I dream so I write ..
“Wings are an illusive notion. Some may possess them, but they are not very visible, and as for me, there isn’t the least sign of a feather.” -Amy Carmichael
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