All day I look for poetry and find it in the most unexpected of places.
In a Friday night traffic jam, inching my way along the heavy thread of motorway, the cars are shiny heat beaten beads in silver, midnight blue and forest green, at times clustered close, jostling for space on the string of road, then spreading out, loosening...
On the way home, we are fewer, a precious necklace of diamonds and rubies, sparkling in the dusk.
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