Sun go?

Sun go?


You plague me as I remember the rainbow.

I chased it to touch, was found and then.

Where did the sun go?

An emptiness, no light.


Fears of waking inside a coffin.

I smell a match light up.

The striker clicks it’s way across the sandpaper slowly before it dies.

I sigh but know I’m not confined.

They were old hands like a clock that’s overdue it’s service.

A grandfather clock in a digital world.

A photograph in the light of a dark void.

I can’t find you.


I throw my glasses in frustration as an old man laughs.

A Match strikes, lights and fights with the darkness to somehow find my glasses.

Old hands hold them in the darkness as a rainbow is born.

©G.P Williamson 2017


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