Once, there were clocks made from dead trees, that took winding and minding. And electric clicking from lightning bugs to backyards was the way a night came in to kiss a home. And mothers knew the language of sheep and the clacking of needles so kids were swaddled in old warmth for their wanderings.
Then adventures grew arthritis. Cowled themselves into hiding among settees that knew no hobby horses or the trajectory of meteor courses. So the world, it did a magic trick, and tied life up in a dreary box of bricks.
And it was 'modern', and 'brilliant', and everyone bought in. Until the bricks, they went boring, and all the lovely stuff drowned. So that leaves in the forests forgot about humans, and the sea in the big spaces swallowed all the bright stuff.
Like ladybird libraries, and owl observatories. Like maps of magic buried under concrete conservatories. Ghosts in graveyards forgot how to howl. Werewolves under broken streetlights lost their fierce growls. Galaxies far, far away, well they just did what forgotten things do, and quietly went away.
Until all that was left was tired wraiths in living rooms. A crypt-keeper existence as modernity unbloomed. Back to buds of tepid thoughts, and briars of thwarted dreams. Back into the broken greenhouse of never daring to dream.
Once, there were clocks made from dead trees, that took winding and minding. And electric clicking from lightning bugs to backyards was the way a night came in to kiss a home. And mothers knew the language of sheep and the clacking of needles so kids were swaddled in old warmth for their wanderings.
Then adventures grew arthritis. Cowled themselves into hiding among settees that knew no hobby horses or the trajectory of meteor courses. So the world, it did a magic trick, and tied life up in a dreary box of bricks.
And it was 'modern', and 'brilliant', and everyone bought in. Until the bricks, they went boring, and all the lovely stuff drowned. So that leaves in the forests forgot about humans, and the sea in the big spaces swallowed all the bright stuff.
Like ladybird libraries, and owl observatories. Like maps of magic buried under concrete conservatories. Ghosts in graveyards forgot how to howl. Werewolves under broken streetlights lost their fierce growls. Galaxies far, far away, well they just did what forgotten things do, and quietly went away.
Until all that was left was tired wraiths in living rooms. A crypt-keeper existence as modernity unbloomed. Back to buds of tepid thoughts, and briars of thwarted dreams. Back into the broken greenhouse of never daring to dream.
Once, there were clocks made from dead trees, that took winding and minding. And electric clicking from lightning bugs to backyards was the way a night came in to kiss a home. And mothers knew the language of sheep and the clacking of needles so kids were swaddled in old warmth for their wanderings.
ReplyDeleteThen adventures grew arthritis. Cowled themselves into hiding among settees that knew no hobby horses or the trajectory of meteor courses. So the world, it did a magic trick, and tied life up in a dreary box of bricks.
And it was 'modern', and 'brilliant', and everyone bought in. Until the bricks, they went boring, and all the lovely stuff drowned. So that leaves in the forests forgot about humans, and the sea in the big spaces swallowed all the bright stuff.
Like ladybird libraries, and owl observatories. Like maps of magic buried under concrete conservatories. Ghosts in graveyards forgot how to howl. Werewolves under broken streetlights lost their fierce growls. Galaxies far, far away, well they just did what forgotten things do, and quietly went away.
Until all that was left was tired wraiths in living rooms. A crypt-keeper existence as modernity unbloomed. Back to buds of tepid thoughts, and briars of thwarted dreams. Back into the broken greenhouse of never daring to dream.
https://youtu.be/t2Sby3-7qxo
Once, there were clocks made from dead trees, that took winding and minding. And electric clicking from lightning bugs to backyards was the way a night came in to kiss a home. And mothers knew the language of sheep and the clacking of needles so kids were swaddled in old warmth for their wanderings.
ReplyDeleteThen adventures grew arthritis. Cowled themselves into hiding among settees that knew no hobby horses or the trajectory of meteor courses. So the world, it did a magic trick, and tied life up in a dreary box of bricks.
And it was 'modern', and 'brilliant', and everyone bought in. Until the bricks, they went boring, and all the lovely stuff drowned. So that leaves in the forests forgot about humans, and the sea in the big spaces swallowed all the bright stuff.
Like ladybird libraries, and owl observatories. Like maps of magic buried under concrete conservatories. Ghosts in graveyards forgot how to howl. Werewolves under broken streetlights lost their fierce growls. Galaxies far, far away, well they just did what forgotten things do, and quietly went away.
Until all that was left was tired wraiths in living rooms. A crypt-keeper existence as modernity unbloomed. Back to buds of tepid thoughts, and briars of thwarted dreams. Back into the broken greenhouse of never daring to dream.
https://youtu.be/t2Sby3-7qxo