Blustery November, and all I want
. Is to find a quiet corner of this burnt out city
. Where the ashes of my past whisper in the wind
Coating the street and alleys in a thin film of memory
That must be scraped back to see the stonework underneath.
. But for every brick and branch I recognise, a thousand nooks and
Crannies have appeared, breaking the lines of familiarity
. Making a tattered mosaic of my memory;
. The edges flutter in the gusts, as though any one might strip
. The whole sheet away, and leave me with a blank slate