Lullaby
The frenetic signal lost from Luxemburg
at 0045 hours nightly, gave me time
to retune the transistor radio to the long
wave, ghost whining of empty air.
White mono earphone crackling
as a warm and soothing treacle prayer
filled me with a languid, liquid lullaby
“Plymouth, Biscay, Finisterre…”
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Recent Comments
| Maggie on Dudley and Eunice |
| Rockall Mugs | Will… on It’s Pissing Down On… |
| Peak 3 (Stillborn) |… on Alderley Edge |
| erroneouschoices on Brittle (for Greg) |
| hana on Succotash |
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