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A snapshot. Warts and all. If it comes good I’ll publish the result; that’s writing and whatnot for you…

I tend to just write, then edit. Always trying to let it take the lead, looking for pattern, a way out, a shape in the distance or the width of a disturbance, something…
Then the edit; my style…bloody like an axe…

I do apologise in advance, 🙂

Phantom Grey Leaves Pastured in Rust…

We scrape the sky, but in inches,
Upon layers of dust we rise,
Until we reach, outer space,
And there, there we find…

The same nothing, which underpins us,
For feet and inches, dictate our height,
falling like over-reaching children,
For both ends, are in truth,
But a filthy pestilence
A barrow mould filling the cracks
Of fine twisted marble lie…

Parodied by, the reclining Poet;
The ancient child we hide,
Stomaching his comments,
Speaking his dust
and daily finds of grime
blaming him for his filthiness,
And lack of ambition, to rise.
Above the filth others race
To leave far far behind

Yet he will have the final laugh,
For all will be buried,
In the Poet’s same recline…
Yet screaming without the grace
The poet gained
From frequent visits to the grave
Before he died

So few in life investigate the barrow fruits
Which in England are all to find
Scraping the sky but in inches, climbing,
Upon orchard branches we again
As children hide…

Climbing from what we find…

Playing above the cemetery of dust,
The soil burns the skin
Should it rest to burn with lime

With arrow and spear and line
Walking in Jerusalem reduced to dust
Should we continue to fight
into the night…a fruit in autumn rust
Withering on the line…
The ink in sunlight fades from black
Travelling to rust on alabaster marble minds…

I leave sienna a darker phantom grey,
No longer pastured in clinker rust…and flake and away…