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Buried in the Gutter


Rusty Broadspear

Pastel coloured streaks of yellows and blues

Streamed down through the willow, at the corner of the street.

The still puddles in the gutter absorbed these hues

It felt righteous, and like I was baptizing my feet.

Gently swirling the water, the filth was hidden

Under the willow filtered harvest. I forgot it was there.

Sometimes it pays not to remember. Now it is forbidden.

Thoughts are cast away with a silent prayer.

Timewaves ebbed into the night as the lamps blinked on

One by one. No colours now, just an ink blot, a stain.

I stepped out, and found my feet, but still felt incomplete.

Fragments of What a Wonderful World dodged the night rain,

Casting shadows of loneliness, into this bleak, deserted street.

I looked up at the willow, which by now was truly weeping.

The wedding ring turned slowly, turning time, spinning gold

Disappearing into the ebony patch, which was greedily keeping

Secrets from the World. I walked to a new life, having buried the old.

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