When the cauliflowers have left the sky
leaving us with mushroom grey,
the birds sing songs we knew when young.
Last night the moon was someplace else,
and I felt I was in a bucket looking
up at the world outside of it.
Sometimes dogs leave paw prints of snow
on the skies face. The frost tickles each one,
and they shine all night long.
When it’s going to be hot the next day
someone paints the horizon with pink lipstick.
And heat lingers in the stones of our house.
If I leave the bedroom window open the sky
falls into our throats, and bats fly around
our brains until we wake and see butterflies.
Gareth Culshaw (21st century) Wales
Source: The Poetry Village
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