Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Decorating cakes and winning medals
Elephants up the stairs push bike pedals
Crushing dust brushing up the pebbles
Footprints on hot coals as the devil levels
Expecting wakes thirst slaking revellers
Bedevilled brakes Turin meddles dwell
