Brake pads, bow strings
Sing down in a fugue,
A slow motion luge of
Lumbering beasts to the waterhole
Whining, warming up to the dip
And a speedy splash.
Category: Short Poems
Temporary Graffiti
He stands in the half light,
shakes the can
sprays his tag, a neat ‘S’,
swiftly, silently but for the hiss.
Then squeaks the green microfibre cloth
’til he sees himself clearly.
Joe Spring writes 