Poetry

It's good things are the way they are

the colour of this boring sky

is dishcloth greyish orange plaid

and all entirety of things

deodorants and plastic bags

has trapped beneath that trampoline

gone slowly silent howling mad

still pasted are that over-close

horizon's stillborn pouting lips

all the leaves on trees are vinyl

the apples have recycled pips

and through a window triple glazed

a typed errorless shopping list

the foulest tragedy of all

is no bright part of it can sing

no self indulgence justified

by shaking songs - dead is their king

and all inanimation weeps

for just one breathing pretty thing

Sam Rae