Gone

Trudging through this stannic fog –

The drill of morning towns

Cuts as snowflakes

Through mould -

 

And far off as fame –

The abstract search for

Spine and cold. 

 

Fossilised forever-glances

Over sodden bars, 

Waking winds nudge lapsed memories

And the pavement warmly holds.

 

Wednesday evening,

Ten past nine –

And likely for the 

Final time - 

 

Going,

 

Gone.

© kate marlais 2011

 

Henri Cartier - Bresson