Tracks in the grass
Speed limit 15 on the path to nothing
Tracks in the dirt remind me of tractor rut tracks in Witchampton
Warm cola, cricket on TV
Then praise song Sunday perennials
Kissing cousins, late uncles, meadows and bee hives
The trip I'm taking from a marriage motherland to two mothers and their progeny
Curves in on itself, a mobieous loop
I'm wearing Blue with spiky hair whilst staring at depleted stock in the sidings
Whilst Gold rings and their homes on fingers float
above the ground, untarnished.
Tails telling belonging and dislocation tales
Behind closed doors we steam up the windows with the hot air of midnight's children
And now is that a sun rising overhead?
Or is our perspective skewed?
A meal and a prayer articulate a better knowledge
Where a watershed means more than just another scummy tidemark
Where love means more than a demographic push button
And cartography,Borders or no Borders,
Queens posessing Universal Jurisdiction.