Would you wash your well worn death mask
Made of all those orchard grown dreams
before coming back to earth having
hidden what you stole in trees.
Alone in the night on the Salem tiles
Creeping along the rooftop toothless
Smiles trying to hide behind blacked
out blinds whilst timing the torch
If you awake in the night
How are you to explain
a summer spent Staring at maps
binding you too sea charts.
The river called to enquire if you could reed
your way back on a blade of grass
to signal back your intent on this
line to to watch the field charge.
The blue sky’s are often lined in the softest
silver clouds imagine climbing to the summit
to chase after what is hidden
In the stratosphere there’s a archer
In the sky right.