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Nighttime’s daughter,
is waiting for a bus.
Stopped.
To come on home.
With her mind’s eye,
a yellow half-moon.

Pavements all pool.
Lagoons.
Guttural gully rumbles.
Rolling on back, beseeched.
By runaway days.

“Walking through our streets,
laden with reminiscenct mists.
Past is heaviest under feet,
where souls bawled into fists.”
Spits, the hiss of factory steam.

I meander on.
Mesmerised by,
flash-
backs.
A gleam, in ancient river’s stream.
Flash-
caught, in semi-crescent
spy’s tide.

© poormansdreams

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