there is a me that
runs through childhood
fields of memory
spanning continents
wrapped up in
waving swirls of
drying grass, baking
in the summer sun.
there is a me that
walks along the
rain-drenched streets
of a city old with
time and oddly cornered
curbs and benches
dotted with graffiti in
a language unexpectedly
become my own.
there is a me that
sits on the dock to
hear the gently lapping
slaps of waves against
the hulls of boats lined
up like a flock of
cranes roosting for the
night on concrete poles -
branches reaching
to the winter sky.
there is a me that
wanders under the
white embrace of
cherry-blossom petals
falling pale, pink,
spring snow onto the
hair and shoulders of
young couples strolling,
whispering secrets while
the old look on -
their dreams hidden
like mine.
© eleanor clark
16 June, 2015
Nice.
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