Once more

a white piece of cloth
a red ribbon
a blue beast
an old hanger
two people
no sense of home
travelling ‘flying Dutchmen’

a smile in Latin characters
the face of a woman
popping a pink chewing-gum
the smell of oranges in November
and fires burning in the night

first material
for something
that travels on its own
despite me
like a cheek pea
that might never grow
but I will carry in my pocket