Inklings

Shadows are but sign posts, fleeting moment capsules, brown leaf portent creeper‘s auto-pilot, tarpaulin-sky mist draped on ancient chapel spire, worship at the coat tail of a wrinkled orange rind lantern, oak wood clouds smoulder from their taproot ash to blur the camera shutter, sonneteer who mines a rock salt crystal, earthly grain-squeeze imitation pearl, false trail bard whose basket weave of catalysts hint at lustrous form, but still we wind-blown minstrels hanker for those dermal layer meters cast ashore.