Its burnished face, worn by breath and dust,
gazing on the flare and flicker of lives
casually levelled by the years.
Its tight-wound heart, clogged by grit and rust,
grinding through the flap and chatter of words
caustically traded on the days.
Its iron-hard hands, watched with hope and trust,
goading fools and wise and fat and thin so
carefully counting out the hours.
YOU ARE READING
Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...
