The bedding evening rays make many olive greens
From scatterings, profusions of the summer-rising crops,
Even minor buzzy things so small and quite unnamed
Fold on thick golden robes; play embers without stop.

Exploring now a structured voice,
Stripped off all melody yet so,
Confined does bloom as all tied artists do.
Now, to the movement voice,
Now, to the statics weight,
The roars of armies beside the nuanced cries of man.

I wrote another dancer for the play,
To tussle and spit full a flame,
To dash between a zig and zag,
An art in motion given jazz,
A little funk and breath to call a smile,
An art I put in motion for a while.

Family scramble,
Flying down on a mumbling Dad,
And the duvet is thrown,
A tumble bumble of words,
And a wittering weave is sewn,
The window blown -
Right open, see the heat is on high,
And the scramble is now.
*May I have the covers back?*