The piece of early morning
times like a clock, missing from his
heart in some unfamiliar way –
yet all its truth is totally
familial in each, in every way.
And each of them has played a part in the now,
or so it does seem, unable as always
lost to modernity and misunderstood
And all he wanted was to be loved.
And all he needed was to love another.
And now they gathered, like bales of hay,
ready for consumption,
ready to keep wintry moments at bay,
like the cold he’d felt and seen underskinning his
body, and being and less than bold way of seeing.
And all he could think of was that long long embrace
that had painted their meeting in colours
of gold, and souls suddenly flew in a moment
of truth: that love and affection which would
never repeat, of that moment of flight which would