Ballycastle silver
gold splattered onto well trodden tarmac
with sticky chips and freshly ruffled crepes

customary melodies
wains aplenty, well yellowed and twinkling
grasping, steadily restrained

one messy, coloured mass of movement
crackle of the heel upon this precious, dreadful diamond
well-breds and mongrels mix here

no mans land … lone banjo
plucked without rumination, no cares amongst the grounded clouds
one great swell inspiring the seemingly random contrapuntal composition

all together
all passing by
all passing through

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