re-encountering my anglo-irish-jew poet some years later...


Never-ending story

He was holding a book
in his unsteady hands.
His eyes were wet,
so were hers.
Their story had been written
before it ever began.
Under a black umbrella
they could not see the sun.
It was hot and musty,
he spoke in a rhyme
she listened, longing
for another sound.
Suddenly drops fell swiftly,
and her eyelashes failed
to stop their story
from repeating again.
He held his book high
and threw it to the air:
-Tell me your version,
mine has no end.




Poetry by emily chambers
Read 1029 times
Written on 2007-04-04 at 19:04

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