From Simon Reynolds

in Bath, UK.


We sat on the beach in a row of deckchairs,
tried to talk the clouds out of the sky
and into our notebooks.

We said they were the work of an idle god
who rag-rolled the sky between pipes.
Dirty white lint on hot blue sheets, just ironed.

The stuffing loved out of soft toys.
Whipped cream remnants on an unlicked bowl,
someone said, and it was time to eat.

As the sun fell we strolled back under a skyfull
of what you might call altocumulus undulatus.
We saw Shinto gravel gardens, raked by drunken monks.

© Simon Reynolds

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