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
hippocampus.
.
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
