Wednesday, 26 October 2016



Sleepy town, 
beneath the towering hills, 
dreaming of windmills winding in the wild 
beer valleys 
where the naked billowings 
of frosty fences 
cross the boundaries 
of snaking rivers 
bedewed by the silence 
of early hours. 

She seeps out of curtain lace 
through open french windows 
to the open gate wilderness 
of early morning, 
wearing only a random thought 
and hair over her shoulders. 

The questions are all forgotten 
and she merely walks 
through a crowd of mist 
with post box mouths 
and traffic light thoughts. 

The hills are waiters 
bent over tables 
offering wine 
but she declines 
and just walks 
the steep sad plains 
of a world full of guilt and confusion. 

Her breasts are bells 
that ring 
as she steps along briskly 
in the risque sunshine 
of early morning coffee 
with a breakfast of bread-fun 
and a post-van of virtual 
and unstamped mail. 

The snores of the night 
are waking up in the bright 
eyed pigsties 
and the randy deeds 
of knights on steeds 
fade into legend 
as the day cranks up 
and gets into gear. 

She rides a soft toy taxi 
driven by pixies 
over flyovers 
of smoky town industry 
and into the milk white float 
of silver topped reality. 

The horn rimmed glasses 
of brief-cased life 
where bills 
are a mutant menace 
and truth is a lie 
are forgotten 
snug beneath 
the soft crinoline curtains, 
behind the winking french windows 
where the world bends time 
and we tiptoe out of the story 
while she sleeps!

Text and photograph by Trev Teasdel

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