Treasure Island

Ross Mackay


Against Her Weeping Head


Against her weeping head,
twenty spiders dead

And what is it you had to say?
Mantua too far away?
Linking arms,
there's nights in white satin to come,
your vertigo brain,
and watching the pastoral sun,
it blooms,
ahead,
under,
the lead.
There's law amongst the mortar,
against her weeping head.

Submitted: Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, June 26, 2013
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