Any Other Day

She went as morning,
turned into day.
When May was at its end
and the year;
a good way gone.

I remember her face
With it’s unmade smile,
and the blur of visits:
In summertime;
between June and August.

Now I take these hours and minutes.
The slices of evenings,
and  afternoons.
I start again,
with a jagged assembly of light.

With a young bride:
Hand cupped,
shading pale skin,
on a summers afternoon
in Tynemouth.

I choose a day,
where her soul is in ascendance.
When hours and minutes,
Make this so much more
than any other day.

 

 

 


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