Number Seven by B – Eduard Dantes

Like a dead leaf
From the mighty redwood
Or the feather
Of a swan
Plucked in mid flight

Wishing to fall

But the air is no good;
It gives respite
Then rises up again
Just before touching the ground.

Only to let go
When beauty can finally be seen
And all can be appreciated.


his name rhymes with ‘mince’. He’s rarely without a notebook and can usually be found next to the closest bottle of red wine. Previously a writer for The Roehampton Lane Journal.

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