Without You

Through the mist the sun’s stocky and yellow;

there’s little traffic in the town.

Each veiled day floats past unrecognised, unremembered.

Yet travelling back to a deeper remembrance

the days whizzed along with us carelessly hurtling after.

But now an hour is an age, a day is an aeon.

The morning is only half-filled with words or work,

the afternoons mooch across the fields aimless as cows.

This day-long solitude is the tariff paid for temporary closeness.

John Rice

Please note that the poems are copyright John Rice 2014 and cannot be reproduced without the express permission of the author.

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