by Charlie Baylis
What could I tell of the taste of the rain?
It was blue as she stroked the old republic
Cutting her trinity of blackberry heads
Open with a machete blade, open here
The blow and flow of her black-red juices
Evacuated bodies, junk to disappear
Dead rhythms haunting bones on the rack
Roads of unwashed ebony, scorched, seared
The merciless howl of a tree splitting gale
What could I tell of the taste of a tear?
White fingers that taint my milk-bottle
White my dear, I’ve seen its name smear
And the copper bell splinter in her hands
So what other stories might I tell?