My Picture: Mrs Noc.  Hoi An, Vietnam

Some talk out.
But most are silent.
A world of grace,
yet quite submission.

But I am relevant,
with no lines to be silent.
Or tint of hopelessness.

Instinct, memory
and a taste for words.
Still recollect a way.

Each day my hair is grey.
But after a hundred years,
motionless as peace.
Nature will tell a tale
of these words
and precarious times.

Surfeits of sadness
and labyrinths of
day’s sweet darkness.

All groaning and languid.
And lost in seas of plastic
and fake poets.

Then, the old left bent
and close to the earth.
Will talk of glory to decay
And give voice
to words and deeds
and distance in-between.