The feast is untouched, like a web in a copse,
But my fingers are greasy and aging.
The spiders of my mind
Are spilling homemade wine,
Stains drip heavy and red from the table.
The fixation on change is an old one I know,
Running determined yet blind toward tomorrow,
Dewdrops of jewellery, wink the sunrise, so
I can’t stop the ache to get roving.
Fruits fall, unpicked by tender hands,
Berries ferment in the dog days of summer.
Life is lush and darkest green with leisure,
Still a tugging on silk strings pull onward
To a lust for faraway buried treasure.
The future has seen, what I was supposed to have been,
As the buzz of a thousand flies start their swarming,
And so home is lost to me now, as I nomad my plan
To follow the river wherever she goes flowing.
