A man chews his mobile.
His large, fatherly hand, a bent vice.
His mouth the organ grinder.
His mind the monkey.

The heath is winter swept.
But his dog laps from side to side
In an erratic, ecstatic zig zag.
His lolloping gait a happy omen
Oblivious to the pained voices rattling back and forth along the line.

Worldy matters moodily burn in the ether.
His accident was 2 years ago now and yet he is still skinny and his body strains to keep energy.
The voice at the end of the line is strained by a different accident of fate.
An accident of faith,
Lost on the vast heath,
Lost in the tails of a tree trapped kite.

The listless winds lift the tails and move the colours to a sort of life.
So that's where the faith is!
In the man's return to health.
In the dog's exercise.
At the back of the caller's voice.
In the blue, the red and the green.
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