2004

Home

Contents

Stories

Poems

Songs

Scripts

Images

Featured Artists

Biography

Back to
a place of info

The night was unreadable
tangled in its own nettings
spirits danced,
birds cried, tangled paint across the page
tomorrow, tomorrow
always a gift lying waiting
until the wrapping paper is crushed on bland dew kissed grass and feet

struggle on over ribbons and paper
yesterday's gift
creased, yellowing
pages of flowers
and bold colours


The night was hers,
succulent, sweet
shapes of chaos
unbuckling on her tongue
she embraced it and feared it
she danced until the dew fell
and then she drank it.

Back

© Elizabeth Argall 2003-2004
Site Meter