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Skye Time


I had blood for breakfast, I’ll need apples for tea.
It was good for you, I’m hoping it will be for me.

The sun burst brightly from under the cloud.
No premeditation, I’m thinking aloud.


The engine’s in gear, running on diesel,
The painter’s in clover behind the easel.

Trees in the meadow shedding their fruit,
Thieves in the alley dividing the loot.


I come to the convent when the evening’s purple and pink.
The chains you forged, I’m smashing them link by link.

Yes I come to the convent when the evening’s purple and rose,
To the big oak door that the nuns never close.


Stars in their billions are blinking awake.
The moon is a splinter, the silver tongue of a snake.

You’re under my skin now with a hook that won’t break.
I hear your voice echo from a boat out on the lake.


Even at midnight, you can still smell the heather.
It’s sweeter than ever when we are together.

Promises, promises, bloom and they fade.
Promises, promises – there are better things to be made.


The iron wheel’s grinding and stripping its cogs.
The hare on the hillside’s outrunning the dogs.

The half-life of some things is millions of years
And some things won’t wash off with twice that many tears.


I hope that the gun works; I bought it mail order.
We’ll find out soon enough, when we’re over the border.

We’re good companions, unlikely as it seems.
We keep waking up in each other’s dreams.

 

© John Gibbens & Armorel Weston 2003

 

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