Wednesday, 10 October 2012

Two Seasons and Part of a Third

I know a summer
when I see one
slinking out the
back door
a few-days-a-year
not wishing this
walk of shame
witnessed by any of
my more elderly

I know an autumn
when I see one
an angry artist
an old soak
messing in a way beyond
playfulness with miserable
colours and letting dry
ice stage a coup
in the studio
fogging everywhere
mussing whatever
there might have been.

Through that fog
I can't see winter

So I don't know

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