Silent Wash
It’s a direct drive of fifty litres
From me to you.
Six hundred miles north
Until I’m resting my eyes on your face:
That soothing easy care
From the dial and touch
Of your features
The mixed fabric of your voice
Trickling through my cells.
I am freestanding
But will bloom
When you enter the room.
Until then,
I’m in this intensive
...
Monday 21st November 2022 8:49 pm
Recent Comments
M.C. Newberry on Pot Shots
17 minutes ago
M.C. Newberry on People Like Us
37 minutes ago
John Marks on People Like Us
2 hours ago
Graham Sherwood on IF THEY COME
3 hours ago
Hélène on People Like Us
6 hours ago
Manish Singh Rajput on People Like Us
6 hours ago
Adam Whitworth on We’ve been there.
7 hours ago
Rasa Kabaila on The Self-Fulfilled Prophecy
22 hours ago
Reggie's Ghost on A bad move having a meal out with a mate!!
1 day ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on The Celtic sea /
1 day ago