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Jan 2014
the burnt throat, sour as strawberries

*maple leafs gathered up into punnets,
syrups into leaks of old milk bottles,
with red strawberries, they read sonnets;
in stillness and grace, among daylighted face.

Some wayfarers' time, tedious, delight and gradual,
meretricious and surreal, like whimsical moon's moral;
yet so gentle and fine, ruther foul, alike of snow.
the smells of red berries with angel cakes coalesced,
a gallery of yarn meadows unhang, collapsed.
Primrose Clare
Written by
Primrose Clare
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