Weather is not kind to binding
left out
certainly not here
in this back alley,
forgotten by the clean-up crew,
ignored by the dumpster divers.

The snow and rain,
the baking sun,
have had their way.
This ordeal has buckled the leather,
mildew consumes it
gluing leaves together.

Wind turns pages
with no one to see
or remember the residents.
Posed singly or in groups
stiffly as if the camera threatens,
smiling warily to oblige
teeth bared patiently.

What neglected stories languish?
Fragments fixed
in yellowing linen corners,
grouping the characters
for one final bow.

This is reprieve,
another curtain call,
a glimpse of their stories
woven in these warped pages.

Here is a beach,
here mountains,
now a garden riotous with sepia flowers.
This one in Trafalgar,
timeless pigeons
in permanent mid-air
around the heads of two laughing girls.

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byGuiltyPleasure© 5 comments/ 2487 views/ 1 favorites

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