to remember the geraniums

on the second floor window sill
you can’t rely on the rain
to keep them in the pink

the shadows of dealers
fade into the cracks

in the long victorian grass
an old bathtub is a roaring barbeque
kaszanka and chuchu on a stick

so I grab a pint
water the geraniums
from a hard London tap

figure that the next heatwave
could change everything

leaning further
I mimic a bow and arrow
and take out the next cyclist on the street


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Filed under Gareth Writer-Davies (GWD)

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