Friday, 2 December 2016

The Exile

Exile, in a self-made cell plucks
the shadows of strings
seems taken aback

here is the light he lacks

stretches of spongey tar
a pleasure for the tyres to grip
an absence of cars
in the old glory days 
of imagination that, like a gear

slips

there is a town
- how it is - how it was

a sort of double double vision -
already, landmarks
such as the chapel long used
as a dusty bookshop
are long gone

the town doubles again
within the memory-scape 

with surprising ease
a milelong avenue
of trees
a song from the strings

and four gold coins in your pocket

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Morlock Oil

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The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
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