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Jun 2016
The tadpoles disturb the water’s edge and we smile.
The flowers upon flowers laugh in the sun,
rabbits chase each other up on the hill
and flies buzz about the bin
bickering over the last slice of fruit.
The wind whistles over empty bottles
and the smell of damp mould rises-
I turn my nose up, the tap off.
We paint you yellow, and
Don’t you look neat,
clean and shining in the heat.
The birds sing and it’s somehow still silent.
The months have passed since the cold
and life began again in the spring
(for the other things).
Looking at you
it feels like only the beginning
with stupid words and unkind men
circling my head.
I look at you now and in pain I grimace-
at least the flowers that die off can be replaced.
Martha O'Brien
Written by
Martha O'Brien  UK
(UK)   
538
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