Those boughs that bend in the wind,

flustered, flapping, mirror a mind

crocheted, closed for solar influence

in wasted lands of blasted heath.

The droll footsteps of the flocks

come winding, paths shorn, cris-crossing.

 

Letters delivered through the post-box

now leaning, drunk-angled through twigs

that break as the snap of bones

through winter’s chill.

 

And down

A fuming road drive the flocks,

stretching thistle and gorse to blurred, grained,

cinema-screened haze.

‘Wake’, the bells cry, ‘Wake’,

down steps in rapid water streaming;

‘Wake’.