Displacement

The horizon is painted
with wind-up
wind farms in
the port-side point-of-view
a sky striped
with two timed
liquorice lines.

The wheel barrows
on the straight
and narrow
do their job
late, (and pissed)
because the road is kind
to those
who are kind
to it.

When trains are
cancelled it rains
all kinds of
glances and all
beliefs become
refrained

Sad flags sit
on type cast
ship's masts
waiting for the day
that the cask wine works
its job
and the last
tomorrow comes
today.