cool moonlight scents the night colour-blind,
and streetlights shimmer languages to stars,
and May’s burnt into photos of things growing,
and you’ve trampled all your question marks,
I think about that bird that hit the window,
and it fell to the pavement. A small soft stain.
We wrapped it a towel, and buried it.
That day felt like rain.
Or a one word poem.
I woke one morning with grey hair.
That doesn’t seem natural to me,
age doesn’t come with peace or welcome.
It comes in sodden watercolours and
illegible words. A wet stain on a sheet of paper,
or when autumn leaves stick fast to your shoe.
Image is from Abandoned Places on Twitter. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021