Swords in the custard.



A universe of dance,
tribal prance,
butter not guns,
the sweet rain of healing,
a rip in the ceiling.


The elder, full as it should be,
modesty does garland the tree,
how many bees for a honey pot?
no more cannot.


A light in the window,
a princess,
cashes her giro,
spiders play in the nuclear silo,
sheep are given new morning coats.


Flutter and notes,
as daisy as the day,
the water in my head,
is roaring for the way.


The daffodils wait for the spring,
coal is backed up on the fire.

Only the clock ticks,
to keep the fruit in the bowl,
the parlour door is open,
silence is walking to church.


To many to soon,
the sparrow crows,
only love knows.

The apples wait in their fullness,
for the hope of a future,
all dreaming has ended,
their is only us now
and the mending stone forgiveness.

~