Red wall, a ladder leaning against it, garlands of bluebells, marigolds and red peppers hanging from a rusty nail as they dry under the blue window

From which hangs a planter of geranium, bright red as pin pricks on the thumb pressed to a square piece of glass

How odd these thoughts for I am sitting under the sun only to remember walks by the hospital at nights, with its lights blazing

like those red skulls painted on a box of explosives, over the sallow faces of smokers gathered in tense knots talking in low voices as if the grim reaper would overhear

And all the while I kept listening for the low horns of freight trains that trundle under a bridge close by, To summon sunk thoughts

Which must have sunk back into the darkness that lies under the span of thinking Soon after

For I don't know I don't know what was I supposed to write down now Of then.