Ivy

Do we think of others, screaming down the phone, a cross borne for mothers, pray for all of those, whose thoughts lay blown, across forgotten summers, ' a cornfield smothers, the dance we do alone, men flit amongst us, we can only suppose, by water and blue clothes, what they want to echo, our days fill with lovers, buckets we take home, throwing dice at trouble, our hands a level force, more than we ever know, a river runs its course, in the valley below.