Quaint tree.

What a Quaint tree they tied us too 

In the spring footprints were gone 

like the Slackening snow sliding 

Of roofs.


The noose Of Mechanised keys grasping 

ribbons of strange words to describe 



blue hands Playing on the xylophone 

ribs of Choking chain which the 

Big Red dog rasps at the grip of its 

masters belt under mountain stairs 

The natural trail leading too Tripoli 

To take stills of trilobite in tranquil

Sea’s reflections of ones self 

In thirties fashion of trilby 

Left on tripod