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Jan 11
I am late for nothing.
Staring into the robin's egg sky,
watching my breath tumbling
to cloud about me.
There is a bus coming.

The light is fading.
Growing numb about the edges,
of frosted steel railings
and heavy molten hedges.
There is a bus approaching.

Fiery tree before me,
swallow the wintry sunset
as a fading reddish memory.
In similar shades, I know we met,
many times, and we were happy.
Written by
Thomas Wood  29/M/London
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