Sunday, 23 May 2021

the drying of a dream gone home


the drying of a dream gone home 


to pull myself along a squall

along a wall that shelters nowt

when trees bend to the west wind’s will

and grapple along with rain when out

the wind only speaks to the trees

listen 

you’ll get no reply whatever you ask

whatever it is 

it isn’t on the wind’s breath 

or the tip of the tongue of sunshine

fast becomes the going of shadows

across the cowed fields backwards 

unmoving creeps the eye that

although it has seen it all before

still falls for the same trick

the wheels that speed forward turning backward

the rotors that thrump thrump unmoved by speed

will the dust from a smoky thought ever settle

will the silk tablecloth never slip its timing

oh dear purple loved and unloved by each few

now that the muse’s devil dust is gone

sleep come preternaturally early 

and the book slams shut 

ink flying in the drying of a dream gone home

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