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.