the early rising
the water falling

the endless running
thru sleeping suburbs

the familiar pressures
of our daytime warring

but they’re all applauding
his fine endeavours

and the timeless breathing
like curtains closing

the quiet daylight
and the curtains closing

the signal failing
the heart still racing

tho the day’s now passing
the curtain’s closing.

Now we’re watching telly
and they’re talking louder

through prints on mirrors
they’ve caught the killer

so we’re feeling better
all our sons and fathers

but in my bedroom
I hear you calling

your hand so gently
at the empty window

the curtains closing
and the heart is racing

the heart is racing
becoming light as feathers.

Image: my mother’s shag carpet and fly screen. Inspired (totally) by the fantastic Robert Wyatt. Here’s Richardson Road, through the English weather.

5 thoughts on “feathers

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