Waya

Kills me with laughter, on her sunny days, dances like a warrior, talks of a writer, bright and unfazed, who never left her mother, though she travels anyway, in a young beatnik phase, it brings me no surprise, hearing trains at midnight, when love holds sway, provides no alibi, for kisses in the rain, on St Bartholomew’s quay, wonder of each new day, morning cafe' fights, the pain of daughters’, a crucifix held high, . in winter’s river.