Poem # 7 | Follow You Home

luke-ellis-craven-222980She spoke,
on the radio,
of this time last year,
of the rust and the algae beneath the
North Pier,
the smell of burnt sugar and
sun-faded souvenirs,

so you turned up the volume,
and spoke about her curly hair,
and how in the mornings you’d get there early
because you always knew she’d be there.

And then, no direction,
you said that we’d just drive but
you followed the signs for
her hometown
and we arrived just in time
to walk along the waterside,


I wore the wrong shoes,
I don’t do much right.

She can be your Daisy,
I’ll be your green light.

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