Walk.Thought.Walk.

Walk.Thought.Walk.

Walk.Thought.Walk.

Walk. Thought. Walk

 

Red soil rusting, a souvenir of the sun

Charmed fingers of furrowed soil stretching

Out across our fertile countryside

We dwell in the jig-saw of the lost and found

We lucky ones of the west

 

Today, the shortest

Begins in a grey shawl

Water-colour shades that seep

Against the edges of a brief history

When time is the fulcrum

 

Now hope teeters

On half formed desires

An ancient past and a future

That could be electric

So much in the balance of fractions