This time last year a soft spoken small person of a height four foot ten sat by the edge of the bed.

Iron held in an iron grip. Ready to rip lines, rip-roaringly along the creased, now-greaseless, handkerchief.

Glancing quickly out of a smaller window in the top right corner of the room, they followed a quick stream of yellow, dust dancing in the light against the pale wall.

The pale wall had an Outside side, and outside there lay a slightly less vertically inhibited individual sprawled stomach down, down, down on the ground.

The light glinted off the single metal bangle dangling on their hand as they manhandled the grass and attempted to sink lower than low, slower than the glinting blinking light on their limbs.

Head turned every so slightly sideways, ears pressed deep into the land they hummed and murmured, mumbled and heard a softer rumbling sound in the distance.

In that distance, during that very instance, storm clouds rode furiously inward, toward a rather more expansive person, expensively laid out on a bench with flowers in their hands.

Their gown flowed down towards the dangling difference between their nose in the sky and their thighs on the side, with the petals darkening and with the clouds now growling closer and deeper.

Their eyes shone apart as they stared down the greying light, brightly glaring back at them, and oh what a fright, as right there and then, the sky cracked open, Oh lords, Oh Heavens! they squealed as the sights began to roll in.

Roll Tape. “So where should I begin?”

I am now.here.

She is a an insect, a creature of forlorn deceit.

Stringing along imaginary songs,

Of water, wind and sometimes someone.

I knew her once, not too long ago

She strung us along, it was like,

vertigo.

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You know, really, they were probably just doing the same:

They said we’d get there. So where? I asked. They said we don’t care. Just anywhere. Just anywhere.

They said some time we’d reach that point. So when? I asked. They said we don’t mind. Soon anytime. Soon anytime.

They hung themselves, out to dry. Old and odd, clothes colourful on the clothes line.

Drip Drip Dry.

Their memories sparkled out in the sun. Their dirt all washed out, so they were glorified, shining.

The quirky t-shirts and cotton pyjamas,  the silk scarves, the woollen socks, the sundresses, old jeans and the dress pants.

Threads stringing out from some. Into the next, the best, the rest.

That string of folksongs. All out to wait.

Not yet shrunk by thought machines. As yet unfaded, as yet unbled. Not quite bleached colourless and not quite the same.

At the whim of whims.

They smile, as their colourful selves hung out in the day, at night, in the rain, till the next, sunny cloudy day.

Drip Drip Dry.

They’re not in the bones, not in the hearts,

they’re starting to move, groaning apart.

The creepers, they smear, seep into the lungs,

comforting sounds, asunder, above.

Have them away, having their way,

coming along, coming away.

Stopping them now, stopping the strays,

watching them grow, awake and ablaze.

Noises, they’re louder, white, blue and green,

noises are louder, those that can be seen.

Quieting verses, throw them away,

awash in the sea, god saved them anyway?

(non-content comment: … right.)