It was late afternoon She sat watching never come to Vincent Crane Under the wet weather swollen door Never came She pressed her knee up Underneath the wooden table As in her midriff Dread flutters like the thread of love or pain There was a bowl of fruit Shrinking on the table by a rusty spoon Over the mist weary distant hills Never came Through piles of wrecked cars From the stagnant pools of water From the abattoir flys That swarm leech and crawl in Clamour Lane She walked towards the door Pushed it open and stood behind Vincent Crane He leaned back and locked his arms around her Thin awkward legs They watched the sunlight Slide in cold squares across the wallsTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
