In the backroom, through the trees

Light is falling from the sun

 Down the wind, clowns roll moaning

Manic roosters on the run

Madly Leaping, talons emblazoned

At their shadows, madly Crowing

growing larger in the lateness

soon to be winging on there way 

Can you ever be so sure?

No, my darling I am not the one

Who chases after sparkling droplets

flung out in waves through the darkness

to crash into our lonely stone.

I will not run through the orchard

beaming out my tangled plight

searching for the feathered fools

drowning in the pools of light.