Hey there, Mr Blue Sky.

You write a few words, a line Or two And there's something there But the whole escapes you So it's put in the drawer Of what might have been

Red wine lips / not to be kissed

Unopened boxes of things we will never need Signs of movement, trapped in static

The voice of the wind sings without making a sound Only its movement caught, a caress or scratch Over all scapes, cheeks, ruddy and bright