run in parallel lines,

find

words have no control.



the lake on the other hand,

is on the road to bala,

not llyn celyn,

padded , dark through medieval

floating green.



a day of shifting gravity,

i wonder to slip in gracefully,

after driving nicely

clear eyes ,



bound throat.



remember the cold ness of the day

on the moor, gently home

to a warm white bath,

hot water to seal.



parallel minds,

deviated.