THE MORNING AFTER MEMORY:
The Earl sees the mountains dusted by clouds revealed by the the sun.
Iron bones stride to summits, waste deep in plant life. Sugar hits
the tongue, hits the waste-line, protest defies death to be daubed on
bridges straddling valleys on skinny legs, the song of wheels above
Black tea re-sets everything to zero, baby in the high-chair.
Hot-stuff in the morning, distraction. Green light go, red light
sneers from the tops of hills, cools the enthusiasm of approaching
wheels. A choir sings.
Here comes the light, street lamps bow there heads for the King.