Break loose with me,
Roll by my side as I saunter,
We’ll eat spaghetti hoops from a tin,
Smoke banana skins in a shed,
Eat road-kill and mushrooms
We’ve picked from the lay-bys,
Cook with broken pots and pans,
Shout at each other like tramps
And sweat like we mean it.

Be my one, be my only,
Hunt me down when I stray,
We’ll never be lonely,
Crying like gutters on Sundays,
Hiding up oak trees with ravens,
Riding our bikes into ditches
And turning clocks backwards
With soft aching hands
As we run from the future.

Stand up for me daily,
Treat my words like they’re hairs
On the fingers of old men,
Bushy and tufted,
Reaching out for a reason
As the knuckles they brush on
Soften to wrinkles
And the palms start reversing
To hold you and dream.

One Response to “Fingers”

  1. He did it again! I love lines like ‘Hiding up oak trees with ravens’.

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