Inklings

Shadows are but sign posts,
fleeting moment capsules,
brown leaf portent creeper‘s  auto-pilot,
tarpaulin-sky mist draped on ancient chapel spire,
worship at the coat tail of a puckered orange rind lantern,
oak wood clouds smoulder from their taproot ash to blur the camera shutter,
sonneteer who mines a rock salt crystal,
earthly grain-squeeze imitation pearl,
false trail bard whose basket weave of catalysts hint at lustrous form,
but still we wind-blown minstrels hanker for those ocean squid ink meters cast ashore.