The piece of short fiction I was writing Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt is a sequel to the story I wrote for my own microfiction challenge (yes, I do them too), so it doesn’t stand alone. This is a poem I wrote yesterday though, that might fit the bill instead.
The air is black between us,
though honeysuckle hangs unseen,
and all the birds, down-soft, song-sweet,
are fluttering with the pinking clouds.
Mist hangs like shrouds, or is it sails?
of that ship we were meant to take
across a corrugated tarmac sea,
nailed down and charted every inch,
to that ‘place for us’ we’ll never see.
I could smell its fullness, rich and sharp,
Of sun-bathed earth as green as life
and apples, running silver rivers-laced,
but you never said, I never knew
what engines, whirring cogs and gears
criss-crossed that paradise of yours.
The air is black, not dusky grey,
where prowling cats shine beacon eyes,
the air is black as pitch and darkest sin,
and echoes empty as deepest space,
the void where old love goes to die.