Friday, 10 October 2008

On your Axe

The cold shake of limbs, the gorgeous suggestion of freedom. A sky at five thirty three, full azure blue setting into a great big salmon pink, the leaves like tasseled coins - some burnished shake on the branches and I am here, regretting the choices I have made, in the sky cabin, curled in upon myself and resolute. Teeth on edge, losing faith, losing time before I give up altogether and declare the whole thing a farce and believe Peter's sad words. Folly. 

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