Fences

The head parts clouds,

Soft rays come out,

Released upon a fertile ground.

The ground’s a gut, which

Harkens back to

Greener grass of pastures past.

Sunrays flicker on and off,

A Morse code tapped through fate’s blue trough.

It sends a signal clout to

Dreamers and to larks, and

The gut it rumbles, ready to depart.

There’s art to skipping fences.

‘The knot is gone,’ the head yells on,

‘But it’s a foolishness, is this.

The fence is fair to keep you there,

Comfort is a word for bliss to many other lips.’

The fence remains unpainted hence,

You score it with newfound intent,

In the pastels of the parlours

That found you when you left your home,

In amour with the world.

And that single word you snared in ink,

Draws envy for the flight of birds.