I hear the town sing
beneath their fatal groans.
They have loans, embankments of debt,
and light fittings to figure out.
I hear the child-bride sing
amongst the echoing pool.
She sings out for oceans, and static moons
to deliver her from
the television roar.

I remember you left
in a panic attack.
You lacked what you felt two winters ago,
when bells chimed at your bedside.
I remember the mist
over Cawston fields.
The yields of wheat, in my bicycle freedom;
you left when I kept slipping
out of the door.