the
morning wakes to grey
this
council estate
does
not impress the old woman
much.
the milkman's been
and
a seagull somewhere
shrieks
its disappointment at the bins.
so
I light the candle
upset
it in the open window
against
my plastic pane.
(I
call every light an optimist). as she
splits
logs like tragedy strikes
scattering
her splinters in the rain.
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