by Grahaeme Barrasford Young
Eight swallows wavering on wires
quaver the Fifth against a clear sky.
All that’s left, such accident?
- only so many muses in one life;
wine too soon stops what it begins;
poverty is only available to the poor;
divine ecstasy no longer fuses,
smoke-free hell has lost its threat.
A bit of smoulder, no flair –
Bring on decline – except
eight swallows imitating art
two-finger decline far into touch,
six-hit it out of stadiums;
dropped by startled passers-by,