the fetching scarf she wore at weekends was lying across her back and dangling over her breasts, beating time as she hurriedly walked down lake passage.
Glasgow kisses and milkman wronged wives slashed the net curtains – a bitter reflex.
lips curled and the fan humming in the hairdressers.
steeples so tall and the flailing jacobite windows ajar – windy gust
trod treading footfalls again and still making no ground on the Great Western Road
back from the Maryhill dole
back from the gray wet bleak hole
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment