Scribblings – Dandelion and Burdock

We sit on the rock

crunching

salted crinkle crisps

scrunching

t’bag when we’d done

munching.

And the wind

grazes

us faces as we

gaze

blowing cuckoo feathers past us

as we crunch us crisps

unfazed.

We sit on the rock

drinking

burdock from the bottle

thinking clouds are ghost-ships

sinking

in the swaying moor-grass sea.

And the wind

whips

us faces and those

ships

we pull hair from out us mouths

when the bottle’s at us

lips.

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