…

a village lost in fog
perhaps the flying dutchman
your long lost cousin

five leaves left
on yonder english oak
as the river man plays

say what you meantime
in the great unrhyming
as the dormice snore

so, it’s november
then beyond the tentacles
of october’s octopus

scatter each thought
like stale breadcrumbs
& feed the phantom ducks

here in the midlands
bolting the blue
& loosening screws

gold became grey – we’re
waiting for the flood
to swallow us whole

…