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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