Poetry

Cogs and whirrs

You can see them if you look closely. The fixers fixing. Broken things.¬†Old things. Silly things. Brave things. Shattered or whole, the fixers fix. ‘But why do they fix?’ You ask. ‘Because they are the ones who need to be fixed the most,’ I say.

 

 

Poetry

Evaporate

Engines chug away

propelling the clouds into new positions

that people read

as sacred teachings.

Oblivious

to the mechanics behind their prophets.

Those maintaining the perpetual motion

no longer speak or hear

in a common tongue.

Language

is lost to them now.

Poetry

The demise of a splash of green in an otherwise grey world

The hard droplets pound

away at the pavement;

the dainty daisies growing in the cracks

stand no chance

against this sudden onslaught.

They fall flat,

squashed not only by the weight of the rain,

but crunched by wheels and feet,

all rushing past as though

they

are the ones

whose petals

are being washed

into the dark drain.