Thursday, 9 September 2010


Blood goes forth
And finds its way around the body’s route map;
Capturing the beauty
Of system views
And bringing news back
From the very edges of its universe.

Return journeys
Are immediately planned and executed
And salves are sent
To restore damaged
Or deteriorating slip ways;
Rendering the tender spots where possible.

And in the North,
Where thoughts wander in and out of random
Alleyways and lanes,
Support is offered
Where requirement is found;
Drawn from the deepest wells of common sense,

And, once deposited,
The crimson stream continues with its work;
More joyful that
At least the reed beds,
Where mistrust matures,
Have been flushed of their uncertainties,

And blood goes forth,
Oblivious to its own mortality unless a rip
Spills it over sills
Or dread stretches
Further south and drowns
It in a fear that even tides cannot repair.

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