The Date

Powered by cake through sunburnt streets.

Drenched in light, and love, and chased by manic mad visions of yesterday’s children

The throttle twisted to the stop.

The ache of something that I should have forgot.

The smile of a secret that noone knows,

She smiles – and the glory of today unfurls.

The Garden

It is old and scarred and tired.

It searches through cynical refuse, afterbirth of a thousand forgotten maybies.

The wind howls laughter of promises, whipping dry, empty eyes that seek only The Garden.

Stumbling through the wreckage of things not meant to be;

A comet held on a moonlit beach,

The pitter of little shoes shod on little feet,

The peppered sunshine of Southern wine.

As serenity escapes on the wind through desperate fingers it whispers a message –

The Garden isn’t to be found, it can only be built by me.