View of the Village Below

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We see each-other every day. We sit on the hill together and observe the small village it overlooks, watching the people walk past, carrying their groceries, walking with friends and lovers; teenage sweethearts, mothers with toddlers in prams but neither of us gets jealous, because we're here, together, enjoying the familiar sights, the familiar smell of cut grass and the voices cutting through the serene air, disturbing the squirrels running up the trees and the stray cats winding through the flowers and the sharp brambles pervading the verdant bushes


I sit there, drinking the drink from the brown paper bag; drinking alcohol is frowned upon, especially, where so many people can see you. The beer soaks into my grey beard and I smell the stale stench of Stella wafting through my nose. I run my hand through my beard and cough loudly. I light a cigarette. I look towards you, but you don't say anything. You just keep looking. You have your own drink, but it's water. You always seem to need it. Water keeps you healthy, I suppose. A man walks past. He looks at us. He doesn't understand. Enough for today. I leave the flowers and kiss the granite. My tears drip down and join the tap-water moistening the soil.

Created: Mar 12, 2014

Tags: poetry, free-verse

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