the first ever sky scents my bedroom a filtered provencal rose. there’s no escaping my mind, but i will paint what i find a different colour, today
pick pen. pack pad
outside, under small shade of sycamore seeds, i skim the moon with scabs fallen off the tree – right between the eyes – and dawn falls in colour, in all degrees
that’s my call. i push off, picking a painted path pointing south. i wonder where it leads?
… through hotwells, across the cut (rusting crimson into dust), heading heart through greville smyth park…
now you are here >…/ beneath the hill – for we live in a hilly town – on a southerly plain. labour wards. roundball game
whispering “forza east end”, somewhere in the wind, till seasons’ break returns last years shirt worn opaque
yes, new blood beydd; glistening golds, forever faiths, pick-up pills. oh how we prayed: the plague of people. and hell is only human… our bodies swell (our cities crumble)
but when we wear these shoes, we learn to move – to break the line, the cross and the curve. to join dot, sink breath and turn
trying to see what feeling makes us do… dancing to the sound of colours writ live, loud and true
………………. (((o))) ……………….
the day sinks by and three blushing birds swoop to roost, embarrassed by the bleeding beauty of a dying sky
thank you for reading don’t forget the sun. take care, k (((o)))