Dynamite to lantern-light, thorn to mass

by Charlie Baylis


By morning there will be milk bottles
Fat and white; chinking on the doorstep
For the dead boy dandled by daisy
With loose paws licking the laundry girls

All summer short paddling in whisky cloud
With well spun sound spinning bathtubs of sweethearts
The sea-ship sails soaked in waterfalls of whales
The whorled caraway jangling in the valleys

With leaflets mouthing to the old sailor songs
Never at a point regarding the wheel’s turn
The flags at halves, the houses on stilts
The miners sleeping in the soft mines of Wales

When a voice comes booming over the weather
Painting the meadows the green colour of graves
Tripping the loose Shirleys, eyes off with nonsense
With a yellow hand chopping the tide away.

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