Kerri Shying R # 474 - not the toffee I'm bits of splinter off the stick

 my last legs    they squeak like mice   hinges tight

  and joints  corroded      opiates don’t work  

 tin woman on my yellow black and red road  this

  fallen  hair  in stooks    sat out for gathering

by the helpers   when they come    I am the apple

not the toffee  I’m bits of splinter off the stick

a little knitting  pot of tea  spot of telly    no work

 of essence   with the dog far happier  than I’ve seen

 anything in years   me  chasing cutworm through

the black loam   singing up a newborn Spring   

tarpaulin  unfolded     by the stream