The Soul Farm
He,stares in to the fire making deals with ghosts in the flames;
I stare, at the empty jars, i care about the red wine, still in the glass.
Now, time is as fragile as a comb dripping like a yellow sun,
i know the wham slap of the morning is due,
like an unwanted letter, or whisper of bad news.
This moment can be split, and spat against a broken future;
I may need a Sat Nav, to be sure of this journey,
a map of shifting clouds, of muddled ideas to gain ;
a painless transposition, along this ragged edged trail.
Tomorrows, tomorrows are numbered and in short supply.
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