Hanging In A Jar

Is it a spaceship memory now? How the swinging door would clatter and the cats would run! The flags wore  blue, white, red, green and yellow and stripped to white bone for Sun, then evening reddled, and orchids grew come night. They mostly danced, but sometimes they were still. There were noises from the trees, scratching and rustling as the culprits were hunted; hiding in the shadows at the edge of the scene. Figs hung, not quite ready to eat, and, in the black of it all, the gold from the window lay warm across the water. 

Left stage, this mortal coil. RIP TG.  

Yesterday my wounds were bound, soaked in wine and oil. The wine was red, now I am blue, the binds have come undone. There are fireworks out the window. There are trees too, chicken shops, chalk cliffs, heathland, moors, smugglers caves, a buried heart, tin mines, the ocean, big empty spaces, blue mountains, the coal scar, fields of sunflowers, ghost towns, desert, asphalt, plankton, then a party. One person leaves, then another arrives. Sometimes there's an overlap. The landlady gets angry. One goes to sleep and the other awakes. One is thinking of the fox with the light behind his eyes, and the oil on her head. The other thinks of dinner, and the right amount to load onto the fork.