Rebecca Stansfield Poems
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The Kind Of Day When Violins Play
Clouds made up of sounds of violins, the white clouds that seldom move, if you stare for days.
The birds that never seem to look angry, even as the crows, eat their own friendships.
The kind of day when the sky, looks like a flying ocean, and you want to jump up into it, not realising that you cannot fly upside down.
When the monsoon is barley a problem, because you like the look of the rain anyway, because it looks like sunrays, sunrays from the sky.
The kind of day when the trees hardly seem to sway, even if there was a tornado, you'd refuse to run away.
And the crickets that ...
My mind is sober now, Heathcliffe
After what you have taught me
Go back on track across the moor
And leave my new life be
No I will not look out of the window
To watch you departure leave
I know you think that I have changed
That I can't cry nor grieve