hanging their heads, shameful
he, painted his face the same colour
she watched him nod his head, far away
she cannot remember why, he said he loved her
or what now transpired between the - i love you's
and the silence - then the morning of the ether-carried note
- i shall be in touch when my six weeks training are up!
nothing but yellow
blooms in the thoughts of existence
she picked the fallen letters
& dead-headed them
never having smelled their scent
or felt the brush of their plume
Angeline sits in the forest with her now
brushing her hair, telling of days gone
of Northern Soul dancing
and music that can lift your spirits
higher than a yellow cowardly sun
that sits on another skyline
thinks he can play
chess with Manchester chimney pots
underneath the shadow of the crown and mitre bricks
she waits in her little yard
for the clouds to send her message
she nods
Adding your comment:
a good piece, i like the emotional aspect here. 
I'm glad Angeline is with you. One needs a hairbrushing now & again. I'd mentioned to a friend earlier today something I'd told my mother once; "we are not wrong for being giving, nurturing souls ~ they are wrong for taking advantage of it, for using that as a sword against us." As the saying goes, "Men. Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em." 
No pity from this quarter, either. Never an "I told you so". Life is a risk, all the way around. So is love. Bless you for trying (& succeeding, each day), Sweetie. Good luck in the contest. 
