Posted: May 4, 2012 by INC in general

In the corner of my eye
I see a ship made of sky
What is the listening that never happens?
We see a tree full of green leaves
And birds perched high and singing
Secret whispers carried beneath the wind
We feel the hat fiery beams of the sun
As we absorb its energy into our accepting bodies
We are all lights reaching out
Hearing the sharp whistle of the slave’s cry.

Written RG y9, CO y7 and their mothers N and O, and NM y10, with Philip Wells, The Fire Poet, after Turner’s Fighting Temeraire

  1. whet's my lunch says:

    i did a painting

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