No 'should' statements can be made, the poet is not a normative artist, just a person viewing life. Hidden under grass, uncut and wilting. Just waiting to be found and stolen and lost again. Until the memories are no longer memories but Foreign languages never to be spoken and spoken of. Amongst stormy imagination, released hope.
Seabirds smile with faces filled- lower than clouds high above the horizon merging into grey sky.
This is a lonely place- a place of worship with no worshippers. How dead it looks- with shells and sand and salt air and a peace neglecting a foreboding storm. Big Sky- Tuesday with a Friday feel. Too big for that shirt Unbuttoned. Stories are made this way.