Saturday, 21 March 2015


The grass is growing and the happy bellies
The seasons of harvest and plenty are close at hand
The next notables are in gestation
Legacy after legacy incubating
And my friends have no use for me now
As their occupations multiply, nourished at the mortar root
The piled sheaves are depleting and these distortions are longer a happy wasteful product
Seasons have come and passed and the scripts persist
Some things fall apart, some stick and in the schism I exist
And my friends have no need of me; they never did, reclining on their porches, watching the sun set
Whilst I have so much need of them

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