Waiting is like a cool sun or a warm temperature

On ice

It’s like the first time you have to sing in a choir that’s

Practised beforehand

It’s the chapped lip and cracked voice of

The Newtown chorister belting out

It’s swept by the wind and yet

Not even the start of Spring has become

For to wait is to be the one who is in the folder

Of the other under her arm.

Waiting for life to recommence with the opening

Of said magazine.

(Don’t like this one personally but maybe it will grow.  It should be better.)  (25/9/2015)

Copyright 2016 Bruce E Saunders

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