A last write of hope

Never again would a smile enhance
after a perfect freehand circle
conversation

or a leaf catch the eye’s view
on its passage to prolong decay.

The ground took all last night,
ate the street and the lives within
till smoke crept from internal homes.

This was the last washing hung white
from straight lines, too twisted by weather.
The dirt collided and muddied diets
that were once fresh squeezed suns.

In pips discarded only one phrase spelt
while the land shrank down to knees,

“Don’t leave me.”