(no subject)

[_shadeofgrey]

The breeze is lifting.
Ghostly spectres in the fog-
I see them as they

Were, smooth and dappled
With summer freckles, flaked skin,
A dust of icing.

Walking down backstreets,
Picking at bits of rubbish,
They look for treasure

As we used to do
Though all we would find was the
Queen’s face, grubby

And matte brown, taking
The sorry collection home.
We were happy then,

Hiding behind the
Sofa, children in homemade
Thunderbird costumes.