It is the want of a bread basket That drives this basket case, To this fold in the clothing And the flat iron sheets. And love whispered is love exhumed. Matchless, There will be no other. After all is time sufficient? It has been over many years That the buried And forgotten Have been rested. I speak of course Of letters, And the syllables written On the surface of old odd hearts. In the flash of a hash tag I have found you. After all this time. © 2018 Christopher Thompson Rush poetry Started 10.44an Ended 10.58am BST Written in England.