Poem

We are the impossible people
We are bright tattoos of vintage swallows
We live in the blue gold leap of a day,
In a garden of newts, surrounded by champagne.

We are strawberry convertibles
Helplessly happy, we are
windchimes hung exactly
where somebody will bump into them.

For all we are and all we have is summer.
We sing so loud the constellations hear.
We are invincible, though we forget it,
laughing on the doorstep in the dark.

Copyright Debbie Gallagher 9th Jan 2014