POETRY

I am unwinding time.
The wooden bridge
made for cyclists
creaks and moans
in the cool meadow.

It is not night time.
She is not here to meet
Love, or Death's dark
under-raged servants.
She will be spared.

The three bouquets
will be rolled by the wind
that has managed
to penetrate the lust
that must not follow.

That first chat,
the email, the fire-plan
all derailed by laziness,
by a spectacular virtual kill
massively shared.

She is wearing all black.
Her hair, soft and short
ruffles as she leans
over the water.
A couple pedals past.

Jam11