To The Nothings That Maybe Were

Coloured glass,
A jagged broken wedge,
Glinting in the distance,

A church in rural climes,

The feasting light
Of real transition,
Of witchcraft
And hunger,

The ancient drop
Of sunshine
Through valleys
Designed by the lost

And the wild
Lonely cyclones
That dropped
To their knees.

Shropshire druids
Retired,
Smoking pipes
And just thinking,

The slop of moving mulch,
The grand old pureed toast,

To the nothings
That maybe were,
All glowing beauty
And trails,

Trails,
Trails,
Trails
Of distant
Disbelievers.

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One Response to “To The Nothings That Maybe Were”

  1. “To the nothings
    That maybe were”
    if there were nothing, they defintely were…
    I think.

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