Alone on this dark wet flagstone hiding not hibernating place no hedge to hug no worms to dig stunned torchlit searchlight target awaiting attack from hostiles spine chilling prying naturephiles.
Musing at my bedroom window proscenium to the street scene parents in the back room snoring. St. Michael's sandstones frowning at poor Sally shambling shuffling from sectret shadow to moonshine bottles clanking guilty glancing bulging stout bag liquor dancing.
Standing at the poet's corner spectators pilgrims commentators ectoplasmic streams rise and flare hot heaving lungs to cold dry air they star prepare explanations poltergeist premeditations.
How was I in my prime was I sublime or merely sub did I impress or distress in my mumbling fumbling way did I go the extra mile tell me why do you smile.