Gabriella Garofalo writes

And this is the bleak truth, the grim diagnosis, 
The sister who holds her head high  
As you watch the moon laying a cloth of white 
And eavesdrop the last screams of days - 
The hell with random sparks,  
With magenta stains on the fruits, 
No way out for you if blue funk blows  
In blue excitement, only the leaves  
Shall find escape, maybe breathe - 
They said it was a haunted house  - 
By the forests beyond sparks of light, perhaps? -  
Nearby the forceful roots made trees 
Break up the cement, more power to them,  
An old lady lived there with her mate, 
A silent illness who would get mad 
At the chiming bells, at the laundry  
Dancing to the beat of gales -  
Such airheads those bells, those gales!  
You crept in holding in your hands 
The musty raindrops exiled from Heaven,  
You crept in looking for demise,  
Sorry, way too late, she was hiding 
Among the summer trees - 
But who cares, he died –  
Demise, tell her you didn’t bury his soul 
By the green flame of the hawthorn trees, 
Trust me, demise, unlock his soul,  
So she’ll never tumble in love again, 
Never run riot, never get wild, 
Look, give her a loan, 
A blue height with a handful of stars, 
Let nights wail in their deep cello timbre, 
Out of tune, but who cares as long as light  
Bends time and two souls can rest in spheres of infinity - 
Trust me, c’mon, they’ll never betray love or seasons,  
Nor the blue shadow echoing through the rain - 
Come to think of it, was that blue love yours or mine? 
So sorry, but I can’t remember, my dear demise.  

from  "A Blue Soul" (Argotist Ebooks)



Leafy Hawthorn in the Sunlight -- Peter Robinson