Match

We piled up the detritus of

thirty years until it loomed

black against a purpling sky like a

lone cypress or the stele of a

lost kingdom.

You hesitated, wanted to

rescue that illiterate essay, this

callow daub, the

broken rocking-horse, the

unsent love-letters, but I

stopped you, took the box,

fumbled, spilled little sticks that made an

irritating pattern, then brought

Autumn on with the

sharp tang of a struck match.

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Comments

  • lifethroughblueeyes  On September 22, 2012 at 8:46 pm

    This plays out like a little silent movie until the end, when the sound of that struck match shatters the silence. Well done.

  • latestarterchronicles  On September 22, 2012 at 9:12 pm

    So sad, but sadly necessary xxxxx

  • Posy Churchgate  On September 7, 2019 at 11:28 pm

    Poignant – I love the line about the irritating pattern of matches. You have a real talent for words xx

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