The wind
Picks up a pace,
carrier bags, paper cups ,
crisp packets, true rumours,
sweet wrappers, where you left off, very light aircraft…
All manner of stuff really
Like Keaton
Granite fey
Agog
Aghast
Watching you
Alone
Walking away
Those sublime hands
Thrust deep
That old grey, fleecy,
Hoody down
Right to leave
While the goings
Bad to bloody
Pointless