Grey, again, the island's sky, and moody,
like a history, could be England's,
and umbrellas popping up
like a boom in tulips, that's Dutch,
( a scent of trade wars)
and memories skiffing through the mind's
eyes that see this translators
not to be understood anyhap
the language that brawls in me
here to be happening that names it:
breath. That under lives
these, eyes.
David Bircumshaw
Leicester
England
12.17
Wednesday,
5th September, 2001
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