Saturday, 15 April 2017

2017.15 - Abracadabra

It makes no difference, the distance, when we meet 
Ten minutes or ten years - it's all the same 
Sword-pull in the gut, cut quite in two 
And a choking tug of bunting. 
Knuckle down to mundane work,
Imitating normal;
No more glittering,
Dove-chest flutter…
Oh my love,

Yet again, the prompt for this came from the prompt that was given to Paper Planes for their show tonight. I'm prepared to be proved wrong, but I think this is a new poetry form called The Abracadabra. I've combined that with some concrete poetry for good (?) measure.

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