What good there was has been swallowed by time

Thinking about things

Pulling on my heart strings

unforeseen consequences

finding a new tune

to play on my fiddle is not happening

but  then again what is is passing

by without leaving a trace except for the hiccups

I make on the canvas that was blank.

It’s not that I don’t think of cathedrals

just not then when I need an idea.

It’s  a bit like history repeating

and searching for meaning

now something has entered tradition

when really all there is there for all to judge

a pink rabbit, a pencil and a pint, some watercolour paints

and an excuse to write. Analysis escapes me.

I don’t know what to call this game, this act, this show, this life.

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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