In the seventh summer
Slip, I dipped out of the trip
To see the pink flamingos
Now my seventeenth number flips
I’m clipped on the strip
Of fair way gringos
In between the innocence and the heartache
What seems the green grass, the second class
Of the mother, the child, the both without a father
In their seven rows
Clips of once wild poppies
Nipped in bud, for the county flower show
Now my seventeen insecurities
Drip into my shattered mind
Rainy days for the sipped sour wine of impurity
In between the hazel and the hedgerow
What seems the pasture, the swift past raptures
Of the other; the wild, the both without the hope
Or rather To be in the seventh seventeenth summer
Somewhere between home and away and eternity
Graveyards, birthplaces; endless timeless journeys
Trips to pink flamingos
Stripped bare the fair play gringo’s
Swathes wave, rave onwards to sprinkled poppies
