Ode to a stranger

The story behind the following poem is that it is based on a wierd picture that I don't know the back-story to. Up until my recent move I'd been going to a writer's group in Gosport, and group organisers Jo and Marie brought some pictures to inspire us in the month ahead. The one I picked is below, photographed on my phone. I just don't know what to make of it. The poem came out of this idea of perception without understanding.

Here lie I

Dead as a dormouse.

There is the angle of the wall,

The bench,

The way the ground falls away,

And a ragged line of people.

There is a lunchbox,

Limp arms,

A lime green handbag hanging

With its half-sunken mobile phone.

While I lie

The wooden slats form a rim

Of each story’s edge,

Tall tower blocks framing me

From the eagle’s eye

And in my eyes

Life does not eke out

Or brim up or linger.

It is too late to be sorry.

Tilt your wings;

Fly on.

© Richard Townrow