Saturday, March 29, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
The days are dark
The saddened land bequeathed in grey
The sky is red as ginger balls
The winter's ground is hard as iron
White the snow, it gently falls
White the dandruff, swirling densely
Opens his door and strides forth
Muscles rippling like concrete coal bunkers
But Wait! A voice calls. It's his Mum.
Is your vest clean? Back to his hovil
He returns. To wash his vest
In mush and Bovril.
A work in progress or a work abandoned - we can't quite make our minds up!