sunday stories (number two)

Discern the flannel shirt
Uncuffed, it flaps in friendly wind

(These waves of air
Will surely never hurt me?)

Behold the orange hat
Distracting warmth to mind to ears
And Why Oh Why
Would I roll it up to expose them?

Contemplate these feet
Be doused in peat and mud
Through weather, the moor and heather
(Each with two syllables, please).

And alive in our lollop together,

Accompanying bereaved dreams and
Splitting seams on this patchwork,
To rearrange in light of new beliefs

Our insides and surroundings.

A 'rustic' sarnie with smoked cheese
And beetroot. Attempt at detox
Always ends in beer here!

With frozen bones

When the flannel shirt no longer works

To discern anything.

And then a bus, chugging to

Soul trio, Bright Star or Bratfud -
Must I be so susceptible to direction?

Can truth be found here?
Amongst peeling paint, bare floors and
Dirt between these once redundant walls.

And You call me a filthy article!

All night I stretch out
Your solemn eyes gleam and grasp
Like half drowned trees underfoot of flood.
I want to experience unconditioned love.

But for what do I wish to analyse?
As Veronika Decides to Die each night
Somewhere. But not here, not now;
I won't be running for the hills for a little while yet.