Harriet

I'll smell like an ashtray, Robin Camilla or Stevie, if I let them habitate, inside my dreams, they'll cut my wires, deep as a coal seam, let them go on their way, someone then will realise, what I want to say, listening to their schemes, all the old talk's ire, brushes a cackle of leaves, hung beneath December's days, mouthing being free, makes me whisper God's sake, run beside the icy sea, dance the tingling tide, that's where I want to be, riding on the sky.