The last home game of the season for Manchester City, today, and fittingly the skies were blue.
Feeling Blue
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The last home game of the season for Manchester City, today, and fittingly the skies were blue.
Words On A Bridge
I remember reading about a Parisian bridge, the Pont des Arts, sagging beneath the weight of padlocked pledges, her barnacled palisades dipping to drink from the Seine. This bridge here, a lesser cousin, sun lighting on her slender nape, is festooned with words, the variable lines of scribes in marker and pen. Amidst the patchwork of diatribe and devotion, my eye is drawn to a post-it note, stuck dead centre: poetry is when the language of the soul escapes into the common tongue I thought it pretentious. I moved on to read the other lines, but my eyes kept returning to that fading, yellow slip, a stanza of disparity surrounded by stiff banalities and wilting vulgarities. poetry is when the language of the soul escapes into the common tongue Just who was the bard of this bridge, paying a toll in words of thrift? I fished out a pen, then, suddenly aware of an approaching woman, plunged it back into the sanctuary of my pocket. But, nailing me with a half-cocked smile, she uttered a single word as she passed me by: "Contribute." I imagined her then the poetess, both collaborator and muse, planting a seed and moving on, the hem of her trench coat flapping around her legs in the river wind. ©Andrew James Murray