Friday, 28 November 2008

One

High above the monochrome street, one golden leaf remains on the Sycamore, shivering in pale rain like a tiny bright light. Now that the leaves have blown, abrupt junctions and angles mark the places near rounded stumps where the hack and whine of chainsaw pruning carved bleak silhouettes last Spring. 

Stark, like a line drawing map scrawled on the back of a snatched and creased envelope in the clarity of a phone call, it makes no sense without a reassuring light or a familiar voice. This blunt calligraphy reaches out beyond rooftops to feel the touch of the open sky.

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This post was inspired by today's prompt and photo at weekendwordsmith.blogspot.com