25 to Bow Church

That last November weekend
Buried under.
Purple skies, and yellow,
And always the silhouettes.
The calm before.
Are we calm?
Or are we teetering?
Are we all putting on a brave face
Or wishing too hard?
Can you see it
In the faces of the people walking by outside?
Safe blank expressions
And safe black coats.
You could be anyone,
But you’re somebody’s someone
And you will be somewhere on that day,
As will we all.
This is not my somewhere
And I will not take my someone with me,
Not this time.
I will be content,
I will be my own child, my own woman again
Amongst the red and green of the pine trees.
Was I ever within the bells of Bow?
Is that it I hear now or am I dreaming of the bells back home?
Are they all the same, these arches of foreboding,
Or am I being unfair?
Thirty days has power to turn an hourglass over and over so the sand never stops falling.
Thirty days has strength to trickle through fingers like fish in a stream.
Thirty days to rebuild yourself in an image you couldn’t see without your glasses.
Get used to not wearing them every day,
So the muscles don’t fail.
I will believe in November.
I will look east and west before crossing the road.
I will see the same in every skyline.


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