a circle of trees can be seen in the distance.
cared for by dwellers and their assistants they guard and parade in unison.
their small faces and larger than life heads clap out rough rhythms at march-band tempos.
t r u m p * * speaks their snare-drum * b a n g * shouts their Bassoon.
a job vacancy description reading '...must be a better Wolf' hangs from a broken branch.
a giant plough formation is the centre of the carnival they paint, depicted by twigs and ferns.
s n a p * * goes their foot-steps * c r a s h * their whispers.
as the sunlight fades they make merry their time and vacate.
'one more day over' is heard being said through damp curtains.
T H E N
- a silence that erupts upon faces like a mute volcano.
the light-lamps grow dim now...
No comments:
Post a Comment