Yours.

I stepped from the pavement onto the snow,

The memories yet to be seemed frozen,

Yet to grow, flowed like treacle in a swamp of

Grime, iron fringed orange overhung it all through

The passage of time which I didn’t have, waiting

For a public bus. It’s ours.

Samuel Dodson : 10 Jul 2011 22:39 |  Comments (1) |  Report a problem