Axelle’s song

The shape of words, new and sweet

Dance like leaves, as mad as birds

From a grey suburban cube

Where you learnt to smell the rain

And see glass tubes across la Manche –

Finding here, the dust of plains

A little piece of history

Whether shapes in a room, seen as child

(“That shadow moved! It did…” she said)

They follow you, how can they not?

And furs climb high around your throat

Which pours a sweeter liquid yet –

Each syllable is lighter than before.

About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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