Quaint

when quietness ensues

the wind unabashedly caresses your earlobe

trailing its fingers along the soft flesh

of nature's children

the nightingale's song lull you to an oasis

where dusty blues, sun kissed oranges and soft lavenders

tango with one another

the scent of young cherries

tucked into their golden, flaky bed

amble from your neighbour's windowsill

to mingle

with the faint rosebuds of your mother's perfume

mouths move on cracked pavements

                                          tyres screech on worn roads

but they dissolve in a fog of muted humming

its wispy strands like cloud's fluff

coming apart at the slightest pressure

                     D

                     R

                     O

                     P

goes the sink's dampened martyr

and life trudges forward without another falter