David Francis remembers the one with her


All fires are small
except the one with her.
It smoldered so long,
for years.
It must have been
the ground –
the cool damp sand
the coals return to.

Brittle white twigs,
ashy dirty sand,
cactus protruding
here and there;
the estuary
wafts in on the night air –
that's her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Sitting in the kitchen
with, on a tablecloth,
a notebook and a pen,
the kitchen door key hung
above the clean tile floor –
the dogs all bark at once
in the outskirts.

On the street wrought-iron
fences guard the facades
but even the nag is
tied in the nearby field
and it's not the season
for the tropical bugs
in the village.

A late autumn wind blows
down from the starless sky;
some old women walking
nod to the approaching
figure with a baby
wrapped in a bed blanket
in their hometown.

* David Francis is a New York-based poet and singer/songwriter who from time-to-time tours the UK. He was last here earlier this autumn.

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