Gravity Gravelling Down
poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2008


When the fast is fast
The slow is slow
We run ablast at last
The rose lays low

On the ground impounded
By the clouds in grey
On the round ridge asstounded
By the fields of May

All the green obscene
Pretty screams in dream
All the machinery steams
And the pipes lie clean

In the sky tonight
As the days just fly
To the light sometimes
And take might in chimes