I love it when we sleep

all snuggled up like Babes in the Wood

a jumble of innocense

we are nothing but good.

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Things thought about whilst

pushing a vaccuum cleaner

around. All sucked up.

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A small flock of unidentified birds

flies into the skeleton trees

and disappears.

What magic is this?

Smoke from the boiler-house chimney,

at the mercy of the fickle wind,

blows this way and that, confused

unstopping, white, following the music

of Mozart's violins: moving, then still

- a crescendo starts to build -

- falls away to keen -

- a lull -

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