Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2022
There is a cloud over Yorkshire...
it brings burst speech in the evening.

The grass is bending in the rain;
a fine fog slips goodbye like window fingers,

leaving behind a shining extract.
We're on the viscous edge of night,

straying into dim, broken hellos
that dissolve us like a companionable acid.

We cook our meals quietly tonight
in black aprons of lonely air.

The silver of the blade is dwindling.
Stars blink like vacancy signs.
Evan Stephens
Written by
Evan Stephens  44/M/DC
(44/M/DC)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems