Saturday, 21 July 2012

Tired Writer

Gentle moss sleeps
Between the stiff grey crags
Outside my door.

Upstairs my ghost creates
stories within the memory flat
I have no key for.

Writers voice complains
in my jar of skull crammed scrap
his sullen war

and who’s to say what notes cannot be played?
Outside, a fat and throaty bird is coughing…
Shall all my keys lay dusty with the weight
of our traditions? Every balding faith?
…in elbow holding breeze. An empty morning.

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