A flint axe hacks away at October
which is moving away from me
chips from the masonry
falling haphazardly

and a prayer in the abbey
as if that lot could help me

Limbo feels something like this.

We are all being threaded into one giant needle which is part of a sewing machine
to be stitched up and switched on to a Christmas long gone and we'll all make believe that this dream is the one from which we shall wake.

I take the Flint axe and chuck it, say **** it and get ready to work for the man
I am
Novemberless and
trapped in the wilderness
where
forgiveness is sold by
the litre.