Thursday, September 24, 2009


A song drifts gently
Raising hairs
Like icy winds
Lifting skirts

Chords of whispers
Strumming powerlines
Lines of energy
Connecting the towers

Green hands drying
Brown cracks appear
Fresh little flutes
Cease to sing

Quiet grey mornings
Replace pink
Ghosts reappear
In corners

1 comment:

The ME in Es said...

gav, I REALLY like this one babe. Sorry not confident enough to move into critique zone as of yet! xxxx