Sunday, May 15, 2011

Often the well is dry


tired words
burst like plastic footballs.

Waiting on this sand-paper plain,
I am no more than a skull
propped up.

With biro for harpoon,
I remain still
in the little pool of my shadow,

turning questions over
on the spit of my mind;
I have burnt larks on my plate.


And when there is drought and nothing is growing, the first rain comes like a shower of diamonds.

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