Pork pies in the sky

Photo by Appala Craft

In the sky,

past the blinding rain,

I catch a glimpse of the ivory arms of hope.

Knit round our freezing bones.

Whispering the same old promise as yesterday.

“It’ll be different today.”

The clouds are hanging out again,

and drifting by,

like my dreams,

in another lover’s mirror eyes.

Smoke today, faded tomorrow.

I romanticise what I’d say.

Everything carved hollow these days.

We’re fleeing town,

dragging suitcases of used-up words of sorrow.