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The water looks enticing and gravity

is heavy tonight: inviting me.

Please dance in mid-air to see whether

angel wings hold magic in their down.

Or whether the pull of the earth

crashes, splashes before being washed up

on some eerie wharf downstream.

"Change?  Any change?" whispers the darkness,

deserting the sanctuary of bright street lights.

A prick of pain bursts the moon's stare.

"For tea?"

We face up.

Two lives in wrong uniforms

that had slipped and failed to find costumes

that fitted requirements

beyond stumbling, ill-suited private plunges.

"Your face?"

A closed visor jousting through the night

in a land of armoured, upturned collars.

"I fell.

The scars never seem to heal.

No one likes me now.

Not now."

Sympathy brews in the black lapping,

as a miracle swirl of a swan's feather

holds afloat its drifting compass point.

A front of cracked scabs and hard crusts seep.

Raw wounds begin to weep, fresh and exposed:

no longer a barrier.

"Can you give?"

His voice - dry, dusty, distant - has travelled far

to deliver this moment of fallen innocence.

Our angle of repose is steadied and balances.

I reach out and drink in the dawn.

And give change I didn't know I had.