A Rescued Man Revisited


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A leaden foot, dragged scraping,

Across the debris on your salted floor,

The corkscrew and the windless,

The ottoman with battered seams,

Spikes of November draught,

Shoot between the floorboards,

Buffeting the pages,

 Of your dog-eared dreams.

The curtains ate the moths,

Before the buggers had a chance,

While the window bursts a forefront,

Now we know that mould can drip,

But that pane,

 Will never greet the spray,

That hits the tilting,

 Wooden ship.

A richer man could never limp the earth,

If tobacco bric-a-brac where gold,

Or reprimanded memories that lye, slumping,

And seethed,

“Those hatted mules,

Will curse the day,

The mutiny was breathed!”

Gwen

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About Gwen and Elinor

Two bloging buddies who love tea and biscuits.
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