Ken's Poetry

Walk

Leaves that fall,
like scabs, are dry and dun
whilst green with blood
life pulses
in the wind.

Bones that rasp,
like brown and bristled twigs,
rattle in the white breath
of the wind.

The belly of the sun
disgorges fire
that fizzes the barley’s yellow hair
and smokes like cloudy eyes
against the blue,
dissolves along the hairline
of the wind:

and purple toes
in ochre fissured clay
climb the tortured track
into the crazed grey filigree
of the mind.