Run, Run, Run
Run, run, run with me - please:
through this junkyard of smoking Barnstormers
‘Clear prop’
and barefoot in the backwood of happenstance,
Hill-Billy lick-o’-sense…
Come please for travels beyond the Shangri-La
and steaming mountain jungle
where faeries are common as birchwood mushrooms
We have no currency with shock or vulgar
nature’s palette paints papyrus, pulp and press…
Platonic as the Rolling Stones but twice as affable
sans the Gnomic nonsense of demented gardeners
We trade in experiential grist gathering precious fragments
to our hearts, abstract and surreal
painted anew and scraped back
to gratifying canvasses of colour-my-soul
If you’re with me
If we’re going somewhere
you’ve been aching to go
and you see soft beam beyond this door…
Here then is my painty-stained, promise-land
rings on fingers, bells on toes
and cockle shell
hand