Claws, wizened, curled and sticky
Farmland cold and green, brutal, unforgiving:
I am chilled to the bone, gathering moss like stones,
Thrown from roses.
A prick on the finger
A trip to the outside
Ride until dreams unfold like origami brothers and sisters
Folded by skilled fans
Spanning a generation.
While you fire a paper:
Spark; a timeless memory
Scurrilous blades shaving filaments from light bulbs
To stab a space in time.
Lace tied to staples,
Hanging from mouldy, dripping window panes
Stammering a sentence of affection
Fractured pump leaking steam
In tandem with black tape to hide the scuff marks
Left by the travelling fair
set up for cream tea functions
April 23rd 2016
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2016