JOHN SAYS HE'D DRIVE...

In Gillingham Park,

nothing is really wrong.

There is a slow dance of sycamore leaves

in burnt orange

and falling greens.


Even the dog has no reason

to be hangdog today.


There is space :

a lungful of air

that could be gasped as happiness.


But my boots are stuck in mud.


On self destruct,

I choose that sad,

stupidly sadder-than-sad,

Ed Sheeran song to play.


...then put his hand on my cheek

and wiped a tear from the side of my face..








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