Monday's poem

Run, run, Rhythm
- Clare Arnot


The park belongs to ducks and ghosts,
to puddles and demons and plants.
The space between the flowers
the walkways caked in mud
the invisible hand on her shoulder
and the no one in sight
with rain falling like feet
and umbrella blocked peripheral ...
she cannot help but step too fast,
her step and heart too light,
tumbled assurances hurt her chances.
As rock is hard and night is long
thought is cruel.
A breath cuts through thin air
fretting neck and skin beneath sleeve.
Headphones steal a final sense
music pumped straight into her veins
she leans into that breath
run, run, rhythm.


Clare Arnot is studying creative writing part-time under Diane Brown at Aoraki Polytech.

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