Winter Balcony

Branches hang down like hands reaching for the cobbled chimney tops, skeletal and frail.

The creek of the wind exhales.

Spindly vines torment the sky, showered within its loose layers.

Enveloped by moon white, the trees hollow and braun, sway with ease on the London Road.

Lives have been lived here.

People have become colourless and reptilian.

A mere memory of an existence, unravelling before us yet we never see the sun, always looking down at the mudded soil.

Embedding our eyes in darkness before we even know it.

Realise our stories we live will just be the same.

Forgotten, unheard of, unimportant again and again.