A WEEK OF TWO DAYS

There are days when I walk

above the pavement,

when the sun catches 

the intense colour of faces, smiles,

the reds of post boxes, clean and

sharp, reflected in windows, glass

shop-fronts, black taxis.

The leaves of the trees detailed 

with craft-knife outlines and the trees 

themselves speak with the breeze.

Great scrolls of cloud wallow

on the ceiling of an enormous sky

and the scent of freedom

fills all the hollows.

There are days when I walk

down the steps 

to the river, slowly sink 

into the brown murk of its mud, 

and then I wonder 

where those other days are seen.

It’s Wednesday, perhaps Friday will gleam.