Ripple in still water


All that is, is not,

Numbed into meaning:


Occasional flowers,

In a city without sleep, 

They die in the sky

Whilst counting sheep.

Moon people kiss,

Not like normal  people do, 

I dreamt a dream with a broken heart

And the dream is of you.

St Stephen with a rose

In and out of the garden he goes

Country garden in the wind and rain

Wherever he goes, the people all complain.

Face the tender protests for stars' light travels far

Meet dead men in cemeteries

Bottled in a jar.

The child they buried yesterday 

Is only a dream away.

We climb to the edge of snow

And then we're washed. away.

The colour of occasional flowers

Mystifies me for hours and hours.

Conducting forensic examinations,

Scattering the poor remains:

Displaying the fragility of the body,

In furtherance of the same.

Yes, the devil's-in-the-detail

We're condemned at the root.

No roof for the orphan lad,

On a precipice-by-the-sea,

Peculiar ways of thinking, for me.

Russians worship icons,

Chinese they have smog,

But poor Jo-All-Alone’s deliverance

Was a false prologue.

Remains of thought and feeling

Embedded in the brain;

Flower into vestiges,

Nothing will remain.


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◄ The magnificent Moors

Dappled sunshine ►


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