Cream mist, hanging on sagging green and grey window panes
Rubbed clean with towelling
The dust dripping away, with the passing seasons,
A day to consider, dithering visions of sea and sand.
A slight cool still air lingers, trickling and permeating each breath.
Resting in teams of brown spots left by descendants of streams.
The cavalcade of gathered ruffles, that hold the dress in check.
Grey divots mark the chiselled face that holds a history;
An album of activity in time and volume.
Turned over like a pancake in butter sweet heat and syrup.
To warm the knuckles and cheer the bystanders who wait
For a clean break from the drudgery, of dealing with owing.
As if its all we do; pay back for something that was an illusion
Never happened but carved out in stone
For the sake of another’s hefty bank account
Tracks line up, unused, lined with steamy stained glass apertures opening
With tears for borrowed bundles of bodies
Embracing the opportunity to go through it all again
Smiling eyes not troubled by the future
To believe in the silent truth that can be the seed
The sprouting relief of tension
A beginning, a growth
June 12th 2016
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2016