Heavy, stinging, bloodshot eyes
looking out on a world –
woven with strands of fairground music.
The Waltzer swirling thoughts violently
inside a moss covered rock –
canals, crevasses of ice sided cliffs:
impossible to climb; hands and feet
keep slipping, falling deeper –
Picasso expressed abstract – unique among fools.
Foolish attempts to exhume all
but the very crystal of being –
the Dove has hope encased in his thin black collar
opened when found – by then it’s too late.
And the Song Thrush sings