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8. Concrete Bread Crumbs

Updated: Aug 25, 2020

July 2020

We stroll along the river side

by side

Full of nods and silences


Fragmented between slender fingertips

And like a polaroid,

I slide into the moment


But a small token of this soft,

And silver beauty.

The tide rushes up quite hungrily

Gulping in shards of the shore

Drenched roots, entangled

As they sway like an earthy pool;

A dark cluster of ponytail that could belong to either me or you.

The shore is empty and unloved

Just like the rush of a first touch

The morning after love has snuck on out the back door,


We climb inside cement rectangles

Discovering new angles of ourselves

Stone octagons bring on transformation

Broken bridges, offering shelter, forget themselves

If only for a little while

And I climb out like a freshly figured out Rubix cube






Grey waves

Grey day

Grey sky


And if the sun were but a flower of fragmented colour

Then surely it would be off-white.

Above the grass-stained horizon

Sits a perfectly quaint little blue-stained castle,

All wrapped up

in a white picket-fenced dream

Swaying softly

Made up of a thousand sweltering Arabian nights

And bound by being not quite what it seems

The scene,

Floats off in the distance like a forgotten fairy tale

And I imagine myself its queen

What would you do if you were me?

I wonder quietly

To no one and to anyone who will hear me

To the castle, still floating

To the sun, still grey

To the levy, to the grass, to the water still rushing

To my destiny, unfolding

To the queen.

A set of swings sway gently in the breeze

Floating like the soft song of an old soul

upon warm and humid winds

I throw my shoes to the ground

Lay my head back

And smile

Whilst he pushes me forward

In more ways than one

Straight towards

The silver tongue of a restless river

I swing it all away.

A soft blush of grass

Brushes up against my tickled toes


Oxygenates my brain

Back and forth

Back and forth

Back and forth

We each grow

And swing it all away.

Only the wind carries me now.

My freshly painted nails

They too are grey

And all except the rouge that is cast upon my face,

I have no make-up on


I am queen of my disenchantment

A slave to the circumstance

Wanderer of the world

Peasant of the Levy

And potential ruler of all that could ever be

I am bound by a consequence

Governed by a simple conscience

That cool voice determining




Yes… me.

We walk among the ruins

Of some older time

Stories broken down


To the dust

Of what once was

I listen

To the hush

Of history forgotten

To the dust

Of what once was

Or will potentially ever be.

Graffiti and rubble

Torment and trouble

Oh what tales these walls would tell

If they were not but brutally boarded up

Closed lips

Mouth shut

Sealed and sewn

with rusty nails

Such secrets

They grip me on this silver lined afternoon

Try to trip me up

On rubbish and used needles

Scattered upon an overly used ground

The sound of silent stories permeating forgotten gardens

Wasps a buzzin’

Nature growing

Showing that it won’t take long for her to take it all back.

It feels kind of




But it keeps me on my on my toes

For with each trespassing step carefully trodden

My mind is blown

Into the same silver crumbs that I step upon

Walk in between

Weave on through

Like bombs

like The Great Land Mines of Our Time

Twenty thousand and twenty years

Spilling rhymes out from within the secrets of me

Casting spells

Witnessing the sorcery

That joins our lives

History has kept pieces of it

These secrets

Aged documents

True in their longstanding falsity

Just like a perception of you or me

And we each keep our own pieces

A personal testimony

Recorded deep in the broken rubble of our homes

The fractured bones of those who have fallen before us

And these silver concrete crumbs upon which we stumble

Our only photos.

Musty murals mimic life

And life mimics intangible dreams

Dreams chop and change


Cut and past

And much like the castle,

Drift into not what they seem.

I drop the mic

Watch it roll around upon a concrete breadcrumb trail

And, following, I start to make my way home again

back to my life

back to my friends

back to my own dreams

Floating… feeling… somehow knowing

That we are but broken fragments from a movie scene.


all the while,

But a small token of this soft,

And silver beauty.

Written by

April Lee Fields

Media by

Elliot Twiggman


April Lee Fields

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