Under the Pale Winter Sky

Sitting by a window in the shelter of an
unnamed winter evening,
I solicit words.

They are slow in coming.

Writing, like love, cannot survive neglect,
absence maybe,
but not neglect,
a deliberate act of abandonment.

Lovers who hide from love in pain or fear,
soon see it perish.
As do writers who hide from words,
they wither and wilt, scorched by salts of sorrow.

And so I should sit here,
until I found enough
words to describe;
slow hum of town, living below my balcony,
brilliant colours of geranium flowers spilling
from terracotta pots nestled against the
rusty balustrade,
the smell of sea mist dissolving over the dove
coloured hills,
shapes of travelling clouds touched on the
edges by a rose brush,
sound black and white cat makes moving
softly under a naked tree,
taste of loneliness.

I might be waiting for a long time,
a day, or
a lifetime.