markbousfield

My hand dried into
creosote
yes
blackened and youngly blessed

Yawning valley furred in lichen barky skin
I heard the news
Oh everyone to the blues!
Blonde American lady
you have Carnelian in your teeth
join in the golden hurrahs

Huzzah!

Saffron buds and the larks of Gloucester
delving between the scimitars of grass and metal

Valium, hell yes

Books of yester-year arranged upon a stool outside their door
an old looking thing
yellowing pages
worn corners and faded text
delightful
1, a quid, a buck for a book

Pains-strolling-hills-rolling-grass-blowing-wick
like my back
strained from driving
me, car, her, the rotations of nature
tour de Carnelian coming chameleon over
greening roots of yew ember

Staying out in the cold after the sun has gone down,
after all it's what we do
the Northern British
in a mausoleum buried under Gloucester Cathedral