All A'Titter

This January morn’ at 50 below

‘cross one hundred years of fields

A nipple-pink horizon grows

On the edge of the great white lie

A blood-red centre bursting ‘bove the round

The timeless game of hide and seek

Drawing at my eyes to peek


Blue

The sky becomes

As I cave

And stare

And aware of it, the centre explodes o’er the everything

With deep yellow warmth

Weather and lace

In place

Of the truth.


This January morn’ at 50 below

‘cross one hundred years of fields

Living on the edge of the great white lie

I succumb again so typically

To the allure of the nipple-pink horizon.