It feels nice to 
Finally have tears 
Fall;
After weeks of
Borderline crying 
But 
Frustratingly nothing
Coming.
Salty tears
Staining my cheeks
Dribbling,
Spilling,
Running from 
My lashes
Feels free.

Today feels like November.
Not quite the festive November, however the post exams should-be-happiness may be causing a
small sense of internal gladness, 
but the November which
foreshadows-  Time's eerie hourglass is long and hangs in the gloom
and you wonder 
where the light is.

The sky's lanterns shower powdered grapefruit in your eyes.
Lashed, mascara'd,
in doubt
The grapefruit turns to wine
And pours out the torn
pages.One by one
they disintegrate
Into the ashes 
smogged,
sogged,
at your
feet.

The silver
Birch trees flaunt
Their glitz as I 
Stroll through 
Deep pearl 
And sand
Pebbles

Gorgeous green
Mansions swirl
Around and
Blackbirds pick
Seeds from 
The posy bunches
And sparkled
Grass.

I pass a 
Pink butterfly house 
With large Daisy 
Heads protruding from
The diamond fencing.

The next house, a rather
Pretentious 'Cordillera',
Sounds like a disease.
A farm gate shields 
4 by 4s and I'm 
Now passing the weird
House with the crocodile
And gorilla and 
Coloured Cow 
And dog statues.

Coming to the
End of the lane
Of silver I pass
'Lane end'
Cottage with its viney
Stature and freshly 
Manicured front lawn. 
High cube hedges forming 
A pathway to the porch.

In The final 
Mansion if
Nosy passers
Have a peek you
Can see a 
Swimming pool,
Fluffy Towels draped over
The Silver pool chairs.

Flitting to 
The end of the 
Dappled birches,
Approaches
A wide country green
Covered in bunting
Bathed in buttercups.

The fish jumped out of it's tank 
this morning. It was a shock to 
see the empty bowl and hear
my gasp as I saw its sticky 
body, wet on the counter.
It was oddly poetic.
that's the second fish I've had 
jump out of its tank.
I don't understand
how it mustered the energy.
Maybe it was a suicidal 
fish, if fish can experience those
emotions?  
I treated it alright though.
Maybe it was sick
of being trapped in a glass
life and wanted freedom even
if the price was death.

Pearl flakes, delicate shards scatter,
shatter. Woven silently, heavily softly, slowly, wafting. Swirling into sparkling sundials.

The sprouting buttercup
dangles into the purpled,
doting sky. It's waxy spangles
nuzzle the moist,
crisply dewed, fluff
whilst billowing across merry air. 

The yellow buttercup
dozes in spiced, lean dapples,
setting its soul ablaze in sumptuous echoes at the sheer
drape of dawn.

The teacup buttercup
outspreads it's wings
amongst tall spiked grasses
and wild flowers.
Shifting shafts and shards
of grass and glass
and forever awaiting the larks cry
which means its time to die.