The Man at the Bottom of the Garden
Once, her eyes were alight,
She stepped into her final watercolour:
The snowman sensed a contended slap pat.
He had laid a place for her as usual.
They gather again dressed in Sunday best
The room lay still, silent and without light.
The young girl entered.
In a land made believable, a looking-glass
When a dull dolt plays, as opposed to thinks,
The next time you calmly book into
Entering, she looked backwards into a dog’s eye
The tree stands fruitful.
Bait awaits amongst earnest endeavours.
When I follow into the deep tunnel,
There was a tear, not rapid enough,
The milk of sorrow from her frightened breast
She was a collector: a gatherer
On the edge, the Moonraker stretched a branch
Outside, beyond the pale features,
She had been beautiful once, but her skin
On the horizon grows a season's robes.
Weaving and wearing a cowl of thin skin,
. . . and listen,
In the beginning were her men
Stretched out in my garden for two weeks
Da! A bag of emaciated pain lay silently in a corner,
One lost you in the discarded ring
The window was now open: a waiting.
Up front, inside character, the temperature
His slack-jawed mug hung beyond mastication.
since the time
Whether had become a sloped, suspended question,
bifore we cud live proper
As I stroll around in that bland, vacuous
She adds a blue pill to his other pills.
The good Lord saved her a visit,
He fell and hung his lungs on the handlebars.
He adjusts his contact lenses with regard.
JUST THE WIND
The bus drives past, then pulls over further up,
The first time
The red hour glass was the giveaway.
Our time, we met in thrusting upheaval:
And so the heavy rains came at last.
Staid, sitting on his solid garden bench,
as we pass by and create yestertime
I look at you and there you are: