For Stacey
A sudden rain washed the life out of a tree outside my window and stopped as soon as it started
mocking the rainbow. Separated by thick glass, I thought that even if I had no inclination to spit
from a height into the dirty current in the street, unable to reflect any of the ephemeral colours,
I would go rafting to mourn the will-o’-the-wisp and all my fallen brethren, weakened by a lack
of viands, only to discover that a spoonful of breadcrumbs from a percipient baker can nourish
better than a whole cake.
hidden pilcrow 