There is only the golden sunlight:-
Pinch, punch; first of the month
and no return - but slight return.
Ah, then we all falling with style
like sand-martins - just lack the fuel
to pull us out of the dive - the dive.
So hit the sand, head sideways
and the grit on tongue, in teeth:-
Pah! pah! The company of marram.
Knock rust-flakes from oil drum,
after all, pick up stones with holes,
and one with weird insignia - insignia.
We're headed back for flack;
and August's on a broad, cart-track.
Four-wheeled drive? Just drive.
..
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Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
