Sunday, 12 August 2018

Sea Spray

The blood supply
To his left arm
Was cut off by the
Weight he had to carry
His numb fingers
Still rolled one
With instinct
His eyes were bottle tops
His teeth razor blades
His whistle shrill
His face a gorse
Cut across the road
With one sturdy boot
His journey habit
The cat ran
The Jaguar sounded it’s heavy horn
From the North Sea of his beginning
The cold sweat up his back
Like riggers
He figures
It was written in the dog spray
There were doors for him
To knock that day

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