In costumes made from cloud and red cloth
we sing and walk and cloak ourselves
with joy and noise, and pictures of noise.
From newspaper towers, idols cast from black and white stones
arrive in chaos, chasing flowers
that bloom across the fading wind.
Over and about tumeric salt ledges
i can see soldiers bouncing over
the words we all desperately seek.
On and In celebration of the moon,
golden clock rivers flow knowingly
between stone walls and empty houses.
Whilst carelessly the sun wilts flowers
that rest in window boxes
planted with great love by those who plant them.
As the daylight subdues the evening smile.
As Merlin rests in thought.
As chalk and viper and needless whisperings
address and fill out my solitude.