Saturday, 20 October 2012

Low Cloud

Low cloud before dinner,

a speed boat

grafts the sea.

I stop;

two fishing rods

make an X.

A dog,

shiny, there familiar,

'what's new?'

Then chase off.

A shell clutching another.

The handrail's slimy with

'is that all?'

I go fast on stones

and wordy,

the ruin of shoes,

trying to

work something out.

Last week's butterfly,

in her best,

will be dead now.

Someone needs to

flush today.



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