Bluebell

my photo
another edited napo entry

Flat out
on an island,
on a feather bed of autumn leaves.
A choir of encircling bluebells
are nodding and I am old, unlocking

upholstered cloisters
with their chintz
betraying a codic chime.



There lay no depth of culture
within the antiphony.
Our shallow roots
vulnerable to jack boots,
piss rash and cliche.

These are how
.   our hands tangle.


An angry kitsch,
(your finger loosens my shirt)
asks for a frenzy,
for a soft collar
and leash to drag us apart.