Glen
Phillips
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Wouldn’t Have Missed It For Quids Looking back on that day, it all turned out so strangely, yet vivid still, as a movie scene— kitchen, wood-fire and cake a-baking, rain bucketing down on pony and poddy calves and two stark muscovies—puddle reflected, I say thanks for the invite, sister. Kitchen, car shed, hayshed but no red wheelbarrow in the rain. Sorrows the gods might have signalled they knew by these downpours. Yet grief shared, like creatures great and small and the river running by, takes many forms. Can have long strings. Thanks for the invite, sister. 5 Minutes After 5 Years It amounts to what? A shoebox of shuffled memories , sheets of paper, a posed photograph of a happy couple against the wall in the photographer’s cheap rooms? If you walked all the way back beside the slow-moving mighty river to where the first white rapids begin in their rushing course you could see the tumble of foam. Here the beginning rivulets of this river of dreams that slides ponderously when near to the sea, now instead spurt in their myriad frenzy, scattering careless spray. Or so they say. Oh isn’t the free fall of a torrent more than wasted joy? More than firecracker paper—at least a taste of forbidden freedom, that elsewise might never come? >>>Mark Weiss
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