Breathing

 He leaned on one foot

beneath the bridge,

slowly turning an apple in his hand

small bite by bite

he ate it.

As he gazed out at the falling rain

did he wonder

what the city would look like

if the rain were coloured purple?

What the face of a passing woman

beautiful if not in such a hurry

would look like with purple

drops streaking her skin

and colouring her fair

wet hair?

An hour he stood there

or more

breathing the rain soaked air.

 

 

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And version #2 of this poem below:  It is my first attempt at pentameter.  I welcome thoughts on which you prefer!  I personally think the latter gets a little wordy... hmm... I'll do better next time, hopefully.

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He leaned upon one foot beneath the old

stone bridge and slowly, slowly turned an apple

round and round in his gently wrinkled hand.

Small bite by bite he ate it there as he

looked out at the soft, slowly falling rain.

Did he ask himself a silent ‘what if’

as he stood there deep lost in shallow thoughts.

How would this city that he calls his own

appear beneath a different, purple coloured rain?

What of the face of a passing woman

beautiful if not in such a big hurry?

Would purple drops streaking her fair smooth skin

and tinting her soft damp locks of blond hair

make her any less ugly than her haste did?

An hour he stood there or maybe longer

breathing deeply of the chill, rain-soaked air.

The End

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