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The moon was sat tight
After Dusk’s light...
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Crippled
by your sharp tongue...
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Mist spits its’ curse, tar-black thick
over the soot covered-shoots...
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No chippy claws on wooden floors
No sound of your approach...
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With oaken roots, an English rose did grow
from natures womb a noble tree was born...
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Tears pitter patter
onto my waiting keyboard...
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Eighteen and a rebel stating my place
wrapped in the arms of my parents embrace...
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Placing words
onto a page can...
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We all have
those moments...
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Courage
to walk alone...
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Our misunderstandings rapidly evaporate
pressured by quarrels...
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Near the wavey waltz of beach
above are Gulls flocking by...