The year fills my window with

a feint ash

second opinions come along

to able the progress of the flash

flooding rivers that torment

me and ask for the litter to

be swept away to sea.

I almost lost my writing hand dipping

my quill in the blood soaked ochres

that tainted the adure with one

of saintly cumbersomes.

The paint when dry showed

years of coming to be

in the oceans of the world

when it was not for the man

and child to know but for the worker

and the red to resignedly

host their perils among the dew

of the age.

The reeds rustle with still birthed plains

of swamp and life is still too long

in the seams to make the red

of the offal seem blue with the colour

of might and irresolution.

It is time for the resurrection of man

and the need follows with each failed

task of memory.