Hang around the edge of town,
Glad for a town with an edge
That's not just another town
But a genuine end drawn
Where memory's woods push in,
A line that says no telling
What you might remember next.
Barnacle goslings on cliffs
Fledge by bouncing off the rocks,
Two-hundred meter swan dives
That frequently end in death,
Small balls of fluff that can't fly
Quite. There are no trees near them.
Even then, dark woods push in.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.