Bookended Sky

The landscape of the mind knows many stories, contained, unconstrained. With time, stories grow, become something difficult to root out, stopping only at the limits. Somewhere between the sky and the ground, we are bookended into remembering, loose leaves, fruit to eat. I have a pen to measure the height and span of what can be told.


If stories were trees,

Leaves would be veins;



No fruit the same

Words would bloom,

Your name an aftertaste,

Picked bitten dropped

Crescent apple gone to waste

And I would climb, to

Bookended sky

To measure branches,

Gripping and sly

On the wall

For with each telling,

A tale can only

Get tall



Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

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