early sun over Hope Valley head back, the sleeping sun pours her storm black hair over the tooth broken shale, river aglint, in the pebbled flint, spilling down in the trackside gale.
break in at the heart something, in the shining smile, shows me there is a way inside. this will take time: patience measured in Mondays, the warmth of friendship first,
portrait of the artist as a small man a weather bleached bench gapes onto a pale blue sky, fallen leaves, spilled over the ground as a copper blood-letting. here, is a Sunday place;
unhalf magpies pair for life. this means, if you see one – they’ve lost one. a whole sky to lose themselves in, blue for the tumbling. until the cry of night’s door,
bottle blue we’re all just so many vessels, clinking together on Sunday buses. entirely at the mercy of brakes; we rock forward, we rock backward. later… before…