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This is the day that doesn't exist. It hangs around between time, like Dylan Thomas' long-legged bait between the elements.
Land, land, land, nothing remains
Of the pacing, famous sea but its speech,
And into its talkative seven tombs
The anchor dives through the floors of a church.
This day rises like a phoenix from the ashes of minutes and seconds it gathered in the last 1460 days. A silent, patient gatherer of daydreams, which blossom out every leap year.
Land, land, land, nothing remains
Of the pacing, famous sea but its speech,
And into its talkative seven tombs
The anchor dives through the floors of a church.
This day rises like a phoenix from the ashes of minutes and seconds it gathered in the last 1460 days. A silent, patient gatherer of daydreams, which blossom out every leap year.
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