Tiny Rivets by Jack Charter

Tiny Rivets

We saw trees and cyclists
and strange glistening stalks
that you said looked poisonous
as you shifted your blue skirt
away from them.

It was a good day.
Accidental.
Not a day we’d hacked away at
and scarred with plans.

There were trees so hollow
we could fit inside them
and you took a picture.

I kept looking at your bangles.
The sense of decoration and beauty.
The beads on your handbag, or your bangles
and their tiny rivets
forming patterns.

I heard the ash cloud from Iceland
would make beautiful sunsets,
peach with pink streaks across.

There wasn’t one
while we were in Richmond Park:
the sun set much later.

jwcharter

is the academic, Jack studies his Creative Writing MA in Kent, England. A previous fiction editor for The Menteur.

Contact him at jackcharter @ gmail . com (with no spaces)

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