eclipse Posted August 7, 2017 Share Posted August 7, 2017 The night offers me a bouquet of moons, my night time walks along the canal. Clouds above are like tourists, will they pass the Maltings?-canal waters sing of journeys they have missed. Evening shadows offer a selection of poses as the sun rises over the Wednesday market with it's collection of muses ready to inspire browsers. I left a tear on the train track, an empty glass on the hotel bar, eventually the light will reach haughty eyes from the Beeston star. I placed a flower on the Crimean memorial, a bee landed, ghosts of soldiers left after being fed by paradise, relatives will track their ancient ties and pray in Saint John the Baptists' church-the wind outside is wearing the uniform of war walking across graves, there is at least one soldier the uniform Fits who shaves memories when a prayer passes through him as his heatbeat is echoes in the wind's footsteps. Street signs ask me for directions to visit lost residents. Beeston stories have been told creating gold for a ring ready to make Beeston's hand gleam. I dream about a hand guiding clouds that rain silver on gardens and hives full of silver. Van Der Valk finds his own shining fingerprints on a gold band. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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