Sunday, 17 April 2011

NaPoWriMo: Day 17


They steer through uncharted bridgewater,
flowers blow in the silent wind, petals detach and float
past fishermen who hold their hats to their chests.

They are black suited, mournful and ancient;
stoic, preserved faces that do not waver.
You, we imagine are encased in a brandy haze.

They moor outside Brooklands, and it's as though
this body has no water. When they remove you
they are following unheard instructions.

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