Sunday, 26 October 2008

Woods near Pledran, by Gillian's (Saturday).

We with our oil black, white gold dogs kicking through banknote leaves, stooping to pick up chestnut copper coins tumbled from velvet-lined husks of purses, talking about our prospects.

4 comments:

Plutarch said...

Echoes of Dylan T here. Banknote leaves whispering under foot.

Lucy said...

Umm, that rings no bells... is it in Under Milk Wood?

Bee said...

Love the way you mix precious metals with "prospects" . . . so clever, that. If the shares keep dropping, we may have to "prospect" for other things. What could be the new gold rush?

marly said...

This one ought to transform into one of the shortish poems that you often make. Very pleasing picture and tropes.