What self should be bring – what part of us should we lay to ourselves?

cast out across memories pre lockdown which still taps us

on our shoulders?

My face feels like hardened paper mache.

a soft gentle shuffle until the light fades

The face of falling seasons throws chthonic echoes across buzzing rivers

some places move on even when we do

Falling through a crevice between good and evil.

We only seem to meet the dead, a new land and who shares our genes

One more cup of Stockport coffeee,  Miles Davis and Jackson Pollock sketching,

they ain’t going nowhere tonight , the dead just leave scattered clues,

autumn granules

A new land of DNA with sketches of Spain

Opening up memories across centuries.

Can we escape the cabbage in a midnight carriage?

Crisis goes with life on the late night 192

Windows open, the weather could be fuller

Autumn nights come calling as poets face the new darkness with souls still free,

but life redefined.

Periodic elements for tragic fruits

Then David is lost into the ether and we remember his final words.