The branches and leaves
They twist the wind
to hushed swirl tire
And many a forest
animal a fire
their shrill trill.
[But they only endow the silence
with an unworried entropy.]

*Wake up to early morning
breakfast cereal digestion
Eyes skitting the time
Unworried, unwary?
But the taste is forgotten
In quandries potential and lost.
Until the 8 starts juices flowing
And Head, a Bustle-Fuddling TIME.*

The pages slip away, away...
*Across torrential darkness*
Through a void of weariness
*Whipping up a taste for nervousness*
Erosion to a lovely apathy.
Distilled to a turgid clay-mess.

Will it all fall away
The rude mould made?
  • Simon Huggins, 27th September 1991