Weep in the wake of a Cornish steamboat; weep for a lesson well learned; weep for matched socks in a silver Mondeo; weep for a love lost to lust; and weep once more for weeping's sake.
Hatches cede to grant the tortoise leafy sleep. A screenwriter clambers over a droid's husky homecoming. A big pink lousy drink is thrown into the haze.
An attic nap. Words under pillow feel firmer than earth under foot. Too late to dig yourself out of your inbox. Lay down the shovel and come back into the house.
Are we strolling into festivities or caught on the bottom of a sinister shoe? As a rejuvenated fox flexes its shape-shifting muscles, are we spiralling through its soft tissues?
A fox is cannon fodder for a tradition served up with a bang, but who saw what and does someone else have eye-deers for this splattered heap who strayed from the skulk?
Passages rob their wanderers. Gourds wheeze. New job at Lofties. Young lights flicker over pine.
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About Into the Moss
From the publisher's feed
A sunken raft of weeds woven into a verdant morass of sound, song and story. Broadcast on London's Resonance FM every Friday, Into the Moss is a 14 minute drift through original music, soundscapes and…