Do not fret to see the clouds besides horizon,

Chirping a soliloquy,

dead beneath the shore.


Governed in a blue light,

Your arms open more,

And I see what is again beneath your maddening open door.


Greatest in the melody,

Your enchanted means of singing,

Are but desolate I now implore.


Bestroking in an afternoon sun,

Your melody washes to the shore,

A tick a lick and tilly tum.


The places of unforgotten gore.

◄ Cricket

Dread ►


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adrian metcalf

Wed 19th Jun 2019 01:37

Thank you so much for your continued encouragement, Martin ?

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Martin Elder

Thu 13th Jun 2019 16:57

Your poems are always refreshing to read and this is no exception.
Nice one Adrian

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