10 March 2009

head of the gully

you think of places where the soft rain fell

at three o'clock of hard mosquito whine

in the dense air so harsh smoke was benign

and the whole evening you bore the smell

of allspice wood on hair and skin rebel

you knew you could not there was one clear line

not to be crossed and no skill could refine

what you were then you waited for the bell

now what is told can never be complete

since all our stories fade into one tale

and then expire like the last winter snow

under strong sun we simply won't repeat

the pressures that would lead a lad to fail

but just command that you get up and go

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