The ravens combed over the grey clouds in an old blue sky,
Battered like a tin milk bucket by airplanes and their trails.
While drops fell off leafs,
Like cow tears on the hoofs of snow white calves,
Bowing to the roots of trees.
There they eat the fallen apples,
Guarding them for all the worlds sins,
To digest twice over,
So man will not make another mistake.
You are the sweet young man,
Who turned me onto beards,
You make me want to draw,
Something I haven’t done in years.
If I had the wit of Stevie Smith,
Or the courage of David Hockney,
I’d draw you from the top window,
Looking down on me.
The Model Ship
The model ship was being submerged by a model sea and I jumped down the stairs in two’s in turn with a young girl, I was young too, our legs tied together by our ankles going down the tower of stairs, level by level to save the children on the real boat.