The stone spire of the palace
Dwarves the corner tower of an aged house
Fish scale tiles spiral upwards
Next to odd chimney pots;
Uniform in height and not in style
Un-assimilated tin cans of varying contents
Organized in two regiments
One of four, one of six.

Below the ‘Stag In’ is quiet busy
A grey haired man who is Scotland sips a beer
Sat next to his small white dog;
Wise beyond it’s years, it speaks of a town
That change only breathes through;
Aging and weathering,
Not where that change resides;
Replacing and digitising.

As belonging as the valley-settlement lining peaceful waters
A young family tessellates with streams and bridges
Dwelling the town which dwells the valley
Rustic leather beanbags of postmodern double coding
Support the weight of life.
A child plays the tin whistle
As though painted in by an artist;
Fascinated by ideals,
Or written into a piece composed by a boy
In love with cliché
So much so, this is fresh and natural.

Eight trees shade a unique sanctuary
A convenient unspectacular bench
In the middle of everything
In the middle of no where
In the middle; now here.

Summer 2009


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