Paintings now at
Bricks and Torture
Valves open: flowing feeling
Cut and bound: no sound an echo’
A breath mists the window.
Delving into the emotive dreads not spoken
A token of the past.
Gates with flowers still hours from the beginning.
Just slipping in the mud; the hills never conquered
The dreams all consuming;
Clever tricks belie the reasons
As the seasons roll on with frozen ground resisting
The tramp of feet; trying to compete with slavish meaning
All too young beneath the blanket:
Wet in rain
Hanging on bedclothes
Stinging rain beating bells
Filling buckets with holes
Plugs have broken chains
Blood stains deep red and shining.
Never mind the weather;
The waves; the clapping window panes
Keeping a cleaver at hand
To slice a soft sentence
Vacuums; times without beginning or end
A pat on the back feeling
Well done for reeling
Shovelling deep evenings
And again a song is dawning.
December 30th 2017
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright