clouds and water

The night offers me a bouquet of moons,
my night time walks along the canal. Clouds
above are like tourists, will they reach the Maltings?-canal
waters sing of journeys they have missed.
Evening shadows offer a selection of poses as
the sun rises over the Wednesday market with its
collection of muses ready to inspire browsers.
 
I left a tear on the train track, an empty glass on the
hotel bar, eventually the light will reach haughty eyes from
the Beeston star. I placed a flower on the Crimean memorial,
a bee landed, ghosts of soldiers left after being fed by paradise,
relatives will track their ancient ties and pray in Saint John the
Baptists' church-the wind outside is wearing the uniform of war
walking across graves, there is at least one soldier the uniform
Fits who shaves memories when a prayer passes through him
followed by the eternally recurring bullet returning to its gun,
fires of war echo in the sun. moon the oars man saves drowning
spirits, their heartbeats echo in the final footsteps of the wind.
 
 
Street signs ask me for directions to visit lost residents. Beeston
stories have been told creating gold for a ring ready to make Beeston's
hand gleam. I dream about a hand guiding clouds that rain silver on
gardens and hives full of silver. Van Der Valk finds his own shining
fingerprints on a gold band. Memories are like rain as it falls onto
clouds reflected on the marina, fleeting rapid eye movements keep
dreams afloat as visions of the day are replayed. In a dream a train stops
before a tear, the moon takes the water with its many reflections and
places it in a glass with a flower. Attempting to trace nectar to it's source
the elusive patterns of memory take their course. The moon has been mapping
hives and lives, the sun's imprints are like the lost buttons from a soldiers jacket.