David Francis remembers the one with her

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.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~


NOCTURNE


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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