Shot Through The Fog
Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock
The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine,
Dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
I have memories no deeper than this glass
And some besides that stretch history twice
In a super 8 film colour haze,
A scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs
Shot through the fog;
Time taking care of whatever I cared about
So you are lost somewhere in here –
Your body, a raft,spinning towards the falls
Your death claimed me too
There were two throats in the noose
But mine now swallows whiskey
Mine is not now bruised
The black mouth of this month,
Bruised lips, black ice,
Forms a sickly smile across London’s sky
(Words – GA Johnson)