markbousfield

An endless promise of light at the hub of the spinning wheel,
gently rocking to sleep the green mosses
illuminated on the tree bark
running through the mill.

Collective,
stagnant,
Boldness and high land spouting
above the waves flooding to my feet.

This Tuesday hangover,
these mulled winter mornings,
they will be the death of me,
dry cups of coffee and long in need of a haircut,
glazed pavements, glazed eyes and skies
so open that the dark and memories have stepped in.

Again and again.