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.