Gate entry by the castle sentry –
a village fenced-in,
a floodplain walled –
and stop to see a
bright, black sea of
hair ’bout Balkan eyes,
red-postbox close behind.
First moment out of moments
over years… surceased, rent, all.
Enthralled by accent, manner, eyes,
movement, hair, smile – still to find
that comp’ny, person, thoughts, ‘n laughter
(as far’s I ever knew them) fixed it faster:
that o’erwhelming darklight flood
(‘tween neurons fire; claim the blood).
From moment Then to moment Last…
still here in the present (now the recent past)
is the bedrock weathered forever by
deep, unique, green Balkan eyes.
Broad and even steps.
A river, there, reflects the moment.
Pain shared and merely hurts another.
A cowbell rings.
My wrists? No longer red and white
to signal spring and friendship.
Worn and worn;
boxed away, remembered.
singing, sea-green Balkan eyes.
My name is William Altoft. I’m a writer in and from (and consistently on) Bristol, in the UK.
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