Acrid taste on the back portion of your tongue,
The part of the platter that can tell you, you’ve come too close my friend.
Colours soon will rush and passing limbs leave vapour trails all lit up in rainbow
Catch themselves on what’s left of the summer breeze.
I can smell hey bail grass clutched between my fingers,
As Fahrenheit sun sets upon reeked havoc,
Forty thousand in a field with mile long queues for larger and water…

…And then queueing to let it all back out again.
That’s the cycle isn’t it?
A distant memory, a dream

Life in Twenty Nineteen