These English gardens
with their wasps and
melancholy, are lavish;
bustling overhead.

We link hands, kiss,
find harmony in whimsy
with oversized shoes
and falling wooden blocks.

These blocks cacophonise
on this concrete ceiling of mine;
these hieroglyphs are pantomime
of nail and reluctant, passing time.

Leaning strands of leaf
and twig shake hands
in front of faces, like the long
long souls we rattle in sunlight.

Lie in damp, cidered grass
and sing to the invisible stars.
In hiccuped haste we lurch and
prey for sun tomorrow.

Hell, TH.

This is how we walk
we climb
to see the tips of leaves
graced by nothing
displaced by our cunning

These are the ships we bought
to sail
to see the dip of eternity
foiled by everything
the waves laugh at our garbled singing

To float is to dream
and seam
like those marshmallow wings
fazed by nothing
denounced only rarely

We stand and these mirrors
feel our hands
push back into glands
mocking of all
we wait for our fall

This whack-a-mole vagrant
is tired of games
coughing and spluttering
heart ever-fluttering
smile for the cloud-line