Thursday, 23 April 2015

Crosshatch



Follows his shadow
halfway up the stairs,

torchlight wavers
hollows a cave
in whitewash.

A crumple of paper
taped to the wall.

Blue ink threads
the page.
  
A crosshatch of squalls, heavy weather
paints each slo-mo scene into forever.

A rolling smoke of sky,
a confusion of clouds
boil in a silver vapour.

What clear patches there are reveal a path.

The battery gives up the ghost
as the shadow goes on
without him.


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Morlock Oil

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The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
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