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There are these spots that rest waiting for us Crowded with bright rings and crisp breezes Too perfect for now they must be saved
Till later when we might fly in from here And land like Gypsies bright with pockets Of sand to share as gold.
These spots fill and fade dull like us Breezes ring hollow, empty and cease These bubbles that hold our hopes raised
Burst as slow as liquid lead that spreads its dreary Dusk until our eyes close and the sockets fill With sand to share as gold.
(I seem to have got seriously addicted to the word ‘lead’ (the element Pb) – this is laziness and I must take steps to correct this inclination to repeat myself.)
March 10, 2015