by Martin Shone

of bell ringings
and soft spoken clouds

of fresh brewed tea
and otherwise silent kisses
of those soft spoken clouds
with their tint of pink
their blush of night’s calling

of visceral grip
this mighty claw opens within
a horrid, almost beautiful
elation of empathy towards the soar
of the final moments
of the end of days

The evening draws
and here I sip tea
to the bells