Worms Of light bury through wooden clouds. Insubstantial trees disappear, or are reshaped by sunlight and gust. They bucket down leaves, make the earth sodden with them. Rain making, thunder making anvil shaped trees make rainbows. You can see the grain in the clouds. Depending upon how and where gust and light saw through wooden clouds, defines their grain, curly,straight or flat in relation to their growth rings. I splish and splash paving slabs sending concrete waves and ripples to either side. Dive into the pavement, backstroke through crazy paving. Have You seen the face of flowers? A furrowed brow of lavender. The skin folds of a rosebloom. Gustblown fascinator of a Daisy. A lily with its yellow tongue out. A field full of closed mouth Tulips. Climb a mantelpiece of mountains. Pass the ornaments added to by every visitor. Step carefully round the opened envelopes of scree. An affectionate crown of thorns The gentle stigmata of a caress. The spiked maiden of your hug. Thumbscrews of our hand holding. Look out of the windows of the moon Let in a fresh air of stars. Street furniture of an ancient wood. A sofa of raised roots. Trees become lampstands ready for the moonlight bulbs to be switched on in their crowns, meanwhile sunlight bulbs move from crown to crown. A shared lighting display. What wallpaper did you choose for your face before you went out? Large red open flowers with a brown background? Anaglypta? The red brick wall, or geometric lines? Watch out for those with cat faces who may use your face as a scratching post. Skirting board round the hem of a room. Are we under the dress of this lounge? Or are we outside admiring the folds of paint or wallpaper the room has chosen from her wardrobe? Colour matching the carpet and three piece suite under or outside the skirt. Walk carefully over the floorboards of cirrus and nimbus. Especially, at night when you don't want them to creak and wake up the house. Watch yourself on the cumulonimbus, one false move could see a downpour. Your socks polish these clouds. They sparkle, after mop and bucket work. Bone Colours This morning sky is a blue bone, winter tree branches untouched by gust. Sky breathes easy amongst the silhouettes. Sometimes there are holes in the sky and you can hear a bone flute Naked branches become Aeolian harps, plucked by gust, sky's breath. The White bone walks across itself using its body as music. Hear the voice of itself. The voice goes ahead The body follows the sound from bright light to bright light from cirrus to nimbus from gust to gale The white bones is talking. It walks across the sky. A sunlight and moonlight path. At night it is a black bone. As if the sky is ash. A cremation of the blue and white into grey. Night is the burial time. Day is the resurrection time. The sky is a white bone made of clouds. Thunder is percussion of lightning against bone. A Knifeblock Winter's knife block is the key to unlock sharp and keen edges slice tracery and pages of thin skin let flow blood juice, let know a thin line between the bone and the dream. Every Bone is a word We grow into, one that may learn to stand, Uncertainly before the first step. Others may crash their words against us, to show how their strong meaning and confidence, might replace our word with another. Our words hold our frame up, a scaffold to others. Every word is a bone coming out of your mouth, wishbones, charmbones, angerbones, lustbones. Smallbones stick in your throat, largebones make your mouth bulge as they muscle out between your incisors, bang against your molars, restrict your tongue, breath blocked, wordbones hard to utter through spit and mucus. My Mop Bucket(Apologies to William Blake) I create moods with mop and bucket. My chiascuro is very expressive. My brush is very free. I learn from the Old Masters. My floors are landscapes. Spillages become portraits. Accidents are worked in In my head there is colour on my mop that describes dashes and dots. I'm a mophead full of bright colours I dip into and out of my bucket. No two floors are the same. I'm a buckethead. Washing away the muck, remaking it I imagine outside. Different temperatures, gusts, light. Bring them all into my bucket. To see the world in a mop And Heaven in a bucket. Infinity in a dustpan, And Eternity in a brush. A One Eye The sky is a skull. One eye is the moon. One eye is the sun, The sky only uses one eye. The one eye of the moon waxes and wanes, sometimes a crescent eye, sometimes full, the blood eye, harvest eye, wolf eye, hare eye, storm eye, chaste eye, Blue eye, seed eye, corn eye, snow eye, mead eye. Ocean eye works the tides. Draw down the eye lit by light borrowed from the other eye of the skull. our god sleeps by Paul Brookes – poetry Bio: Shop Assistant. Writer and performer. Books include Please Take Change, A World Where, As Folk Over Yonder. Latest: Wonderland in Alice... Twitter @PaulDragonwolf https://t.co/FM3fFo6T8z for the Wombwell Rainbow Blog.