The sky screams in shades of orange
and pink brilliantine, thrusting
an undulating tongue
towards the night
as we walk hand in hand
along sidewalks scrubbed
clean by the morning’s hard rain.
Lights wink on around us
in neon gestures
pitching beer and cigarettes.
Pausing quayside, we watch the slow sway
of electric clusters floating
above the decks of houseboats.
We haven’t spoken since I opened
the letter that said he’s dying,
though you held me tight
and sat close as I packed.
At the corner where we hear
the trains we squeeze hands
together. I turn for the station,
our fingers brushing slowly apart
as the sun spits its last drops
of blood-red light into the sky’s face.
Inspired by the lovely photo on Debra Broughton's website.