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Nov 2020
The flicker of a whispered ghost
On baubled beads of glass,
Flees a world daubed dismal brown,
With mud trod over grass.

A dampness hugs the sagging sleeves
Of shoppers' weary arms:
Their stooping arch more drawn to earth
With every charmless charm.

Is inside where the magic's coiled?
Inside every ***** kitchen.
Endless chinking glasses raised with
Chunks of ice cubes glinting.

And through it all I stand and grin:
Half braced in case I fall.
I'll never last til Armageddon -
I've already hit the wall.
Written by
Sam Lawrence  52/M/London
(52/M/London)   
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