Like snowdrops they droop their heads,
contemplating brighter days
away from the glare of the acronites'
yellowing purge by the graves around St Margarets.

The soon to be beached meadows shimmers
as the heightened sun dehumidifies  the outlying cornfields
evaporating the ground cover.
Scarabs appear postulating
the broken bonds of  farmer
and nature.
In the combustible sands
Great things will be birthed.

Those sash windows rotten in their frames
the venerated better placed,
to observe the desperation
of others,
once laughed back erstwhile,
but its always the emptier pocket
that question the affordability of repairs
as the day is long,
the overgrown bramble in the parterre garden
obliterates the rectangular  lines
a vernacular happenstance
socially  trailing  backwards

Gushing rain's a
scurrying season,
plying woe with loosened tiles,
detaching once proud roofs.
From whose past has this rain dance been arrainged ?
All we stand for is porous and howling wind,
a gambit of ill suited omens'
hectoring guise to scour
our cracked chimney pots.

You've picked out a folio
and wished for a dream
yet the nib of your pen has ran dry,
like yesterdays thirst.
The bridgehead  that spanned
your momentary stride,
is someone else's iron cast certainty,
their vibe having read
the better book,
a change champion
more successfully ascribed.

Moving horizons
seem to gorge the visuals,
alongside cumulus clouds that pre-shadows the destination,
on scraped knees even the shoreline dissipates with the impervious vista,
at times the night air feels insecurely ballast,
how can we be said
to be truly safe?
when the vestige Cities
mourn with the tiresomeness of the beaten track.

An oasis of hope is vanquished by order of
a diet of worms,
pyred vitriol
stored in sunken shafts,
no tenable reason is further  expanded
nor quarter given;
hushed words turn into withered excuses.
no bells to commerate the ex officios
once held in prestige.