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Don’t look for stories in black and lined pages –

neatly typed words, thought-up, bubbled-up or stirred-up,

then bricked up into niches, cul-de-sacs of formatted

emotion – a scripted laugh, an unexpected tear, a skillfully plotted

dénouement that erupts into waves of applause among rows upon rows

of chaperoned readers…

No, those are not stories of real, stories well-told…

The real stories come to us out of the star-scraped sky –

brow-beaten, bedeviled by treacherous ancient lights,

or absently leaving behind an ancient sigh it hid all these years

and that slipped within the evening grey coat of smoky dusk and fire…

Or, sometimes, when the sky is hanging about vaguely beyond the

gap in the evening and day, and you stand still for a moment, just for one,

the sky settles in the sun-warmed bird-pail and starts… “then there was…”

Now that’s a story…

another time…

another hour…