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Poetry Page - Alone



The wind is from the north today,

A bitter chill from far away,

I closed the door to a crooked frame,

It screeched against the timber stain,

Worn out paint, a broken cast iron lock,

A story told beneath an idle clock,

It’s watched me come and go for years,

Chasing rainbows, borrowed tears,

Alone in the crowd I turned the key

And hoped that she'd come back to me.


It’s not as if I didn't know this rule,

The cunningness of friend or foe or fool,

Berated now I've seen the light,

Through hindsight eyes of reddened plight,

The truth held out for all to see,

An empty bench, it waits for me,

Discretion lost, unforgiving hope,

That painful kind that helps you cope.


Through curtains pulled I reappear,

And replicate what once stood here,

Rewound, dissected, over old ground go,

That bitter sweet reproach,

Nullified, so as not to show,

Footsteps on a filthy cobbled street,

That hollowed sound that empty beat,

A numbing kindness washed in urban grey,

The dregs of which were thrown away.


The wind is from the north today,

Discarded paper carried,

And with it something else to say,

A birth, a death, a marriage,

And buried there amongst the ink stain block,

An empty hand, a vacant lot,

No longer bound our names be read,

For others now, the last word said.


Hunched the fragile pirouette,

Spills the afternoon collection,

A black bin bag, torn of untold truth,

In captured drab reflection,

And stubbed beneath a worn out boot,

That last drag cigarette,

A darkened morning workday drop,

The service wash, an empty launderette.


The wind is from the north today,

Raw down the alleyway still bleeding,

And grateful in a numbing way,

The awkwardness of those around receding,

And unbeknown that punch card sound,

Encased in lacquered painted steel,

That metal box, I stand before,

Records the emptiness I feel.



Written by James Darcy

Copyright © James darcy, 2013