Looking down at the rabbits, bobbing, as frisking buoys in their sea
And the cat belonging too – the scene.
The “The windmill” hostelry the old fogies’ now two hours dark.
And the night, in its infancy plays with ducks.
Stepping on; it grew (an idea) and to the sentence charm and wit
I rolled on my back and took a draw on a cigarette,
Humour (I thought would make us) - it would fail -
The gag disguised the meaning the serpent is the serpent;
The pregnant night grew on the light we almost grew to fear
Like an iterant do-gooding-parent - still there was time
Down by the tracks the light reflect around and off the metal
Showing the rails like swords in some magnificent battle.
And the cat belonging too – the scene.
The “The windmill” hostelry the old fogies’ now two hours dark.
And the night, in its infancy plays with ducks.
Stepping on; it grew (an idea) and to the sentence charm and wit
I rolled on my back and took a draw on a cigarette,
Humour (I thought would make us) - it would fail -
The gag disguised the meaning the serpent is the serpent;
The pregnant night grew on the light we almost grew to fear
Like an iterant do-gooding-parent - still there was time
Down by the tracks the light reflect around and off the metal
Showing the rails like swords in some magnificent battle.
By Jonathan Beale
