with wanting eyes
flaunting shades of discoloured trust
in hidden haunts where walks surreal
with broken heel and heaving guts.
old shoes on young rocks
on days short enough
to be measured in coins;
flowing strings
on flowered beds of rusting brass
a never ageing timeless flight
with hollow vows on hallow grass.
hunted with huntress eyes
how tired the seamstress looks
with her stitching standing fourteen hands;
heavy is her ploughing horse
both in loudest thought or quietistic slumber
taunts the palate of the hungry Raven
with feathers torn between fate and hunger.
no guards left to scale her Monarch walls
her garden of England in fullest bloom
with her barking dogs and market stalls;
with wanting eyes
with flowing strings.
how heavy now?
the ploughing horse
that sings;