Having skipped through fresh bloomings of
Lesser Celandine, feet numb to their shiny hearts;
one-foot-spanned the wild River Beal,
the other missed, trailed, became sodden.
Green eyes scanned, surveyed the horizon, with its path
to Gallows hill, so with one foot cold he ascended;
Tarmac pounded his heart, as words,
from god-knows-where, flushed synapses.
Perhaps it was the discord of former chains
ratting in the bleakness, crimes of dependencies
crying for release that swept his attention on the wind,
or a lapse into timeless genetics, coursing naturally.
He died up there, left a ghost on a former gibbet,
then descended to the Beal's banks of Yellow Flag Iris.
June 2014