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Knit Personality May 2018
A player once played the trombone
As though he had ears made of stone:
   He'd slip and he'd slide,
   Glissandi a-glide,
All over his targeted tone.  

#
Silence
inside a train
is the only sound
of life outside.

Along a road
a melody grows
flirting
with the countryside.

The river
wide and turgid
flows
to a relentless rhythm.

Sometimes
a flute plays
between rays of sunshine
and whispering winds.

Clouds swell
in a darkening sky
to the groans
of a sombre trombone.

Inside
listen to the rain
watch it slash
at the window panes.

— The End —