The Dark Iron-Tree

North wolf-door belongs

To the Devil in songs;

The dark iron-tree

Born of dead-sky-sea

Fell through fire, slate

Thick boar-skull plate

And dragon-crest helm

Into the Albion magic realm.

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Some playful god

Has spilled warm cider

Across the sky;

Giving orange edges to

Grey flamenco-skirt clouds.

Phantoms of the

Dance of night –

Left exhausted, happy below –

Appreciate the mischief.

Harvard; Leading the Blind

“See the statue here …?”

The step-on guide drones;

Way she mouths it,

It’s not a question

“One statue, three lies here,”

She isn’t speaking

So much as reading a script.

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The Wrong Kind

Wharf-pool water –

Century’s stagnant mirror –

Surface made of shattered

Butcher’s knife blades and

Shards of guillotine in a

Brick-sided drawer:

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