Long greyfeather clouds
Carrying blue-light poison
To the moon;
Memory’s desperate fox
Cannot help, doesn’t
Have the stretch or
The strategies.
“Far away, far away,”
The young ones hopefully chant –
Distracted by bright-fool images –
As though it could, ever, be enough.
But patient snow
Is too silver-slow.
Last night’s secrets are
Always written on the ground.
26/11/2012