Thursday, October 22, 2015

oil sands

He was hungry; he was ready with strike-through.
exposed to the wind; an apple-tree barking.
A destiny propels the ark, its console finisher isn't free.
Rich; with a horror of poverty, or a single assassin, locked to small arms and airports.
He watched his father intelligently, while he spat Patsey's flesh.
Outside the house, the topiary of willow-leaved pear, his wife shaped with clippers.
You cannot come in here like that, he tried to say firmly,
with the elements of fortune and ours.

I shall keep this separate from my other wealth.

[Sort sort of flat-topped Japanese cherry (I'm guessing 'Shirotae', but I won't know till next year), with numerous holes in the leaves, illuminated by a pub spotlight.  N. Swindon 19:37 on 9th October 2015.]

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