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PERSEPHONE

At this bus stop there is no sign
Of ever a person being here.
Verdant grass
In a midway bedraggled ditch
Slits the ribbon roads.
Shoes scritch
Sun-coated gravel paths.
A familiar coach dips and rolls through the heat-swept air
In silence.
 
This land broadens because it’s able,
Toward the bustled stone square.
An afternoon-sun promenade extrudes from streets weaving
Grey-windowed doors, and faded teal
And amber banded buildings.
A ghost this evening:
Seeking a familiar meal
In foreign tongue; steps to a church;
Her school on a hill.
 
The bright river banks sidle tourists and shade
Tables of jewellery, food, and marbled birch
Trinkets for a sister, father, mother.
Some ethnic, chthonic-type rug hung to the wall
Greets home a sweltered stopped-too-soon arrival,
She seems to call
“here still?” or some other
Knowing this sojourn
Was forging portents.

(2020)

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