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By Lorraine McGibney
The biting snaps of this October wind
reminded me of Irish winters and a
bin bag bulging, balancing on beams
cushioned by custard foam, browning at the edges
warmed from ascending tendrils of heat.
These crisp Dutch winds, turn my cheeks
apple red without slaps, make me cry without my shades.
That's what I tell him...I need my glasses
Tiny spatterings of clouds moved gently along
shuffled like a pensioner chain in an aquamarine sky
fuzz to the watery blue.
The atmosphere tugged me off to Spanish streets
where I walked for hours under the same sky, streets whose
chatter rose like swirling pavement steam.
I strolled for hours, watched dusk roll in, my Walkman
music drowned out my solace.
The moon snuggled into the ebony surround, one quarter
nestled, a featherless chick tucked under a wing, as I
covered miles and miles, hearing them sing,
until my depleted batteries distorted beautiful voices,
muffled them before they died.