Lung's heaving,
Breath trapped in treacle pools.

Lake blue lips, quince skin -
Larghetto drowning.

Dusk…
…in the
space between
jigsaw pieces –
lost.

From the beach
We see a
Wind farm wave.

James calls them
Windmillows,
And I smile.

Now he calls
These windmills,
And I frown.

Soon they will
Be turbines -
I shall grieve.

Blue flames lick
the copper-bottomed pan.

Inside, hot milk rises,
underneath a white, foamy tarp.

A whoosh and frothy surge of
swollen milk cascades down steel sides.

Blue flames
turn red and extinguish.

Gas and acrid vapour mingle,
a beach of volcanic ash cools.

...moon's shadow,
Intentionality free -
A lacuna exists.

On beaches of buttery biscuit,
Martian fruits drip
                                  red
                                            syrupy
                                                          goo
Onto time frozen swirls of cool surf.

...unwinds from the silver birch.

Sinewy branches, twist, rip,

Dangle and fall; crushed and swept

Under carpets of roots. All

But clustered dust, resting now.