An Evening Holding its Breath

Journeying home

At the tail end of a day

Whitewashed

With doubt and lies

Even the sun had gone

Inside

Left a shadow in its

stead

The train will stop at every

Station

Slowly working its way

Pass the corrugated boxes

Where humanity ekes out

A living

Pass modernity’s installation

Living art…..

In fields where cattle

Graze

Alongside rusticated cars

In shocking brown

Where rabbits nibble

At the elbow of an evening

As I write, a soft mist

Falls

The snake slipping through

The landscape

Pass the half built homes

Under steel grey clouds

An evening holding its breath…..

Thatcher Doran

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About pmisteil

Hi, my name is Paul though I write under other names like, Thatcher and Paolo, I love literature, art and architecture their passion and drama....the contradictions. The notion of Truth-who is the person behind the mask? Or does it matter! I like long walks and longer conversations over cappuccinos in a cafe with atmosphere and the rest is a journey!
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