I send you a letter
That I love at the time of writing
And then forget
Next day another phrase catches my ear
But let it not be called an internal rhyme
We talked of the camera obscura
A photograph, a thousand points of view
Through the window, over the valley
One mile more or less from the ford
In summer’s heat perspiration began
The muddled, befuddled mind…
To slow down, or jump in the pool
With or without question
In the letter I hoped for a reply
Did you
Taken from the collection Words in Aspect South Facing - Available from Amazon for Kindle
