neither love nor fever heals
the stale wind in a winters claw
as draws an ever nearing to a note.
shrimp bone heads in a Fathers day parade
chomping the grass-eyed cabers wheat beast yield
harvesting the throbbing hay on a leaning hill
neither love nor fever heals;
neither tramps nor harbours sleep
chimneys the shearing of the barking owl
nor circles the god-seed as she pines.
one Masters voice; he with the snow hair and a shallow pole
walks north towards his southern belle
in his worthless rags and his coat-trail trim
neither tramps nor harbours sleep;
stitch the foundling to my ears
we will chance the forearms whispers with our hands
plant for the litter of our fate.
neither prisoners nor stilts for the tall beards sun
neither scars for the moon with his pregnant eyes;
neither love nor fever heals
the stale wind in a winters claw
still shadows the slaves of our trees;