First Draft

first-draft

The moon is entangled in sketch-marks.
The clouds have been smeared and stained.
The windows of Fleetwood are cut out and pasted
On flat cardboard streets, colour-drained.
The last minute shoppers are puppets on sticks,
And their poster-edged shopping looks daft.
For once I’m complete, but now everything is else
Is as rough as a first pencil draft.

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