we used to sit the rise and think of this.

drive the evening hunting the blue           flax fields .

found and waded the poppies outside the ****, then

worked the red thread.

again.



danced  the lane,                 brown boots through dust.



look at me.

dr.martens.



i sometimes sit and think of this, sometimes   dream

in bad, often in yellow.



**** covers the land in places, my eyes           smarting.



so once again we speak in                                     crosses. i



think the hanky may be yours.



dr.martens.





sbm.