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.
A fuming road drive the flocks,
stretching thistle and gorse to blurred, grained,
‘Wake’, the bells cry, ‘Wake’,
down steps in rapid water streaming;