Sea swimmers have soup in their veins
I push a pram away from the sun,
transfixed on its stand off with the moon
It backs down and bleaches the sky pyro pink...
Others no longer focused on patchwork pavements either.
From creosote
To when we were shaking
Dead fire coals as spring unfolds
A familiar beautiful wasted space
Why didn't this add up?
All these times were weather proof
for me, not you.
Wonderland we're holding hands
Somewhere between a dead charade and a glue eyed dance.
An old one excerpt from my song the Magpie Turns. Just a bit of winter imagery.
