Hush!
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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