All he wanted was a little garden
Where wanting would go away
Re-absorbed into the green sheen
That keeps starting up again
Clay turtle under yellow Mums
Don't kid yourself he'd say
Mountains of years to get here
But you could still make it in a day
Dogs howling behind the gate
At a freight train creeping past
The moon for its caboose
Sitting late into the darkness
Drunk on the swirling stars
All his senses breaking loose
No comments:
Post a Comment