Poem of the Day — Listening to Drips

Listening to drips

Tipple for wistful visions

Clouds with gates bereft of windows

Crisp leaves twinkle with beads of surface tense water

Dust gathers warmth in corners

A margin for fellow friends

Balsa wood planes hover on the horizon

Not far but amplified by the light grey, black contrast

At last a broken voice

A cracked up cloven hoof

galloping on time

Days are numbered

Chapels carved from crystal chandeliers

A disappearing generation

Lost before they were found and smothered in brothers and sisters

Charmed to smoke in football grounds

Parker coats zipped up like we were in quarantine

Soft white skin shimmering in the dark alleys of the mind

Save our favour for a memory

A passing

A young

A fresh

Copyright Patrick Turner-Lee 11th November 2015

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