stars

till moonbeams find you

right in the middle of the ocean
lay a man with a fiddle and a bow
trying so hard to lift a finger
to tell you

left of the shiny tower building
momentary lapse into his shell
the bug with the spray can in his forepaw
listening to the beat

sometimes the pounding of the heart is not enough
the scratches in the doorway meaningless
after thirty years
in the mud
pause to hear the crickets.

a tonne of empty buckets filling up my bags
the ancient breaking labour on the dawn
and with
every rising moon the battle starts
releases all the pent up tears to the stars.