Deprived of roots,
she lets her hair loose,
shakes it down over roofs and
doorways to
other people’s mocked-up hovels.
Homes without foundations,
plastic walls floating – on
clogged-up clay.
Chalked-up purples and
felt-tipped reds clamour for a hold,
reaching up to tug down
on strands of twisted cells –
on tangled death –
wanting, needing, willing
her
in.
Rooted, buried – in
clay.
.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 2018
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 