Walking On Egg-shells.
walking on: eggshells, cornflakes, drawing pins,
with no sound
grasping at straws
no no-man's-land singing tonight
only plummeting angels, who whisper fairytales
as their feathers scatter and their golden and black, curly, flowing hair
stretches out behind them,
undisturbed robins, chirruping in its folds and fissures
and sparkling, elegant strands.
Plummeting, they all go,
whistling, at last, no-man's land songs,
cups, saucers and saucepans
scattering behind them.
A happy time was had by all all good things come to an end.
Bare your teeth bite the hand that doles out good times then takes them back.
Put: the sunset: into a black, lead-lined box. Bury it out on the mud flats.
Put: the grey stone hills the curlew's call the rock wall the torn sky the seabird‘s cry the warm wind the salt sea the soft arm the breath of life the embrace the laughter that releases dry leaves and flying bullets
into a black box (lead-lined for preservation) and bury it far out , on the mud flats deep so it won't be found for a million years
then wander back to the concrete jungle: twisting of limbs paintscraper of skins sandpaper of bones.
All good things
to an end.
Verse 4 of Love Has Caught Me …. verse 5 in next Blog
then I meet your eyes, and all the skies they no longer cave-in on me
and I touch your skin, you let me in and I’m living in exstacy