Buckley's Busy
No services today.
But the Lord said it's cool to eat at Taco Bell, now babies.
At least as cool as it ever was.
Don't put the scene down at the Olive Garden, though. Three hundred dug it there....DIDN'T DIG IT.
See you down the line, and when you find yourself without the first biscuit, keep stompin past the Olive Garden, dig?
But the Lord said it's cool to eat at Taco Bell, now babies.
At least as cool as it ever was.
Don't put the scene down at the Olive Garden, though. Three hundred dug it there....DIDN'T DIG IT.
See you down the line, and when you find yourself without the first biscuit, keep stompin past the Olive Garden, dig?
posted by Kitty O'Keefe at 1:09 PM
1 Comments:
Timmy's mum sent him down
to his aunty at Dudgeon Seape for a recipe. While
there, as ever he will, the young mouse trudged up
Waterview Hill west of the riverine hamlet. At the top you could see on a fine high blue day how the
bright line of sparkle
demarqued the western
horizon like a builder's
rule. It was the sea!
Timmy watched and watched
and dreamed and his breath
became shallow and seldom
and his fine young mind..
the brain of the proto
Saga Teller..ranged the
great ocean roads. Some part of it, though, awoke
to the figure coming up
toward him, a mousine figure like his own but
coming on with an odd
gait like a hitched twirl..
a mouse moving exactly,
thought Timmy, like a
strong-driven frigate might do over a lively
sea..dip, bob, roll and back and corkscrew twist
on a central axis the while.
It was a seamouse.
THE SEAMOUSE by Timmy
If I kiss your village maid she will taste the
strange salt upon me whiskers and if a knowing
one she'll blush to taste
her very self in the sea's
flavour.
If I take m' tarred flat
leathren hat off you will
know a captain is behind
ye.
If the air rub damp upon
your wrist and the wind
blow just so I'll be under
and out of it before the first drop hits ye.
If I sleep on the sweet
tang bounce of the hay in
your barn I'll be fitful
for the cradle swing of
my ocean mother in m'
sailcloth hammock in the
'tween decks.
If I'm gone of a fresh
morn you will know it is
down to a port, where the
timbers creak and chunk in
the backchop surge of the
tidal, where the tackle
drags a-chink over the oak
decks, where the gulls wheel with their thin dogleg wings and never cease to ask each other
whyyyyy whywhyyyy, where
the cold green rollers stride in layers across the
far converging of the channel mouth..where the
fearful deeps begin and the
constant keen scare keeps
you just pinked on a knifeblade of aware.
If I remembered my Mother
when I slept offwatch in her birthing bed, that would be like the sailing
of a voyage on the sea.
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