Liquid day of soak and quenching for the poor parched ones.

And for we, who pour the soggy-old through the leak and out.

Think of the slide of it – just think – what stuck so in the dry now rinsed off down-river.

Oh and while and under the tin-roof patter turns the crisp dry printed page, slow.  Breathe the bow across string,  rasp the pencil over paper, flicker the chesterfield, the fire-crackle.

What time tastes like.

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Categorised in: Art The cordwood house- 2006-2013