every morning at dawn arise old ghosts
mouths a laceration of starched and well ironed sorrows
tall with hard calloused thoughts
they dispense in scattered winds
red fiery dust as they move
it pulverises a languid and tremulous sun
creating evil urges
white eyed they ****** and gulp
like burst and juicy fruit
their fill of emptied begging children
causing competing and contrasting
rumours of confrontation to avenge and humiliate
to cause a devastation of glimpses through
the red fiery dust paths
don’t think if there is no hurry they will slip away
no, the old ghosts multiply forcing a look upon
that frightened daylight star with an evil eye of virtue
that assumes to sanctify the foul rookeries
where perch devils and evil jinns
conjuring up a vaudeville of defrocked priests
who weep  over a holed and cast of shoe
with withered  fingers rattling rosaries
as if to ward of some dreaded contagion
and they lie there among the rain without the wet
and know that it is they who are the contagion
they so fearfully dread

The noise of the cavalry was muffled by the rhythm of the crows
Cawing, they bellowed their demands, until silence
Betray the gathered armies, and the men began towing
The foreign rocks, heavy they were, scrapping the last of the lavender
From the earth. Those in protest formed a crust
That lined the crown of the castle walls, there will be no violence

Today, nor tomorrow or the next for the wives have had enough of violence
And the birdsongs have never sounded so bitter, these crows
That perch in the woven branches of the castle woods eat nothing but the crust
From shattered honeypots. Often they screech out in pain, but it is all silence
Lately for they have been soothed by the refugees of lavender
That squat in their nests. But it won’t last, for the men have started towing

Again; great metal ladders in hopes to infect their havens, men towing
Their aggression like a mere pebble in their pockets. They are cemented in violence
Like the calf to the ******, and the wife who lathers the scent of lavender
Into her hair. But not all things are so natural and sweet. The crows
Have had their heritage destroyed, they no longer follow the universe, silence
Has become permanence, just like how their rookeries have formed the crust

Upon their enemy’s world. So damp and hollow their homes have become like a crust
Of saliva upon the bathroom sink, alas there is no time to repair, for the men are towing
Again; rocks, ladders and now fallen oaks - dragging earth up as they trudge. There is silence
Before the breach, a moment of purgatory before the deafening violence
Ensues. There are no caws from the guarded rookeries, the crows
Have decided to sleep through revolution, huddled among their lavender

That will soon be found in the knotted hair of widows, the stench of lavender
Shall waft through the winds of grief, as the priest gives counsel to the fresh crust
Of tears found under the eyes of thousands. It is over now and the crows
Have come to pay their respects, they caw at the men who are towing
The tombstones of lives that never blossomed, each one reads: “there will be no more violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next.”. And life shall proceed only with silence.

For awhile it may all persist, silence
Is king and the woods that hug the castle walls are growing lavender
Again. The treaty is kept and the cloak of violence
Is hung up neatly next to the crown, waiting for the crust
Of peace to be vanquished. It is the wives now who spend their days towing
The labour of the land; weaving seeds and chatting to the crows.

Alas, it does not take long for violence to mature, and for the silence
To pitter off. The crows have buried themselves, taking all the lavender
With them. The men are towing again and all that is left is a broken crust.

On Cabbage Mound the birds tweet gold,
So says the porridge eating man,
The spontaneous trek up that grassy reserve
(To see the flocks and frolics of finches conversing)
It’s a matter of season he said,
In joyous spring they produce song of glitter, but
Catch them under the wave of a solemn winter
And you shall only hear a dull twitter.

Often he leaves bowls of porridge upon that place,
Abandoned to absorb the view,
Wilting amoungst the bush and flora,
Like a planted trap for the lurking fauna,
Their ceramic bodies sit unnoticed and unaware,
Soaking in the sunrises and
Mourning the day’s ending
When the sun crawls under the horizon.

Early dawn conversations leak
From the finches’ rookeries,
Where they dwell cooped up
Amoungst feather and trinket,
Their endless nattering awakens the sun,
Coercing it to rise, and
Bleaching the ground in tints of orange.

A breakfast awaits them
Outside their homes
Of woven branches and loose fur;
Berries and scattered delicacies
(From the Sunday morning ramblers),
And perhaps a touch of porridge too.
They bury their beaks into the thick pools
Of weathered oatmeal,
And perpetually pick at plastic wrappings
Until their brandished beaks begin to go blunt and sore,
A monotonous task even for an eager flock,
But they never end their labour without reward.

After breakfast,
The porridge eating man
(With porridge in hand) arrives,
He approaches with a staggered limp,
Perhaps a scar from some late night disagreement,
He approaches holding his lower left limb,
The finches have come to learn his routine.

First he stops (whether to take in the view
Or to rest from the trudge up Cabbage Mound,
The birds have not yet asked),
Second he takes out a package
From his right pocket,
He undresses the wrapping
And produces a small pad of paper,
A pen follows, signifying
The start of settled concentration:
Strings of ink,
Intertwining lines and shapes,
Letters touching letters,
Forming meaning and breeding words,
A sharp coo startles the man,
Breaking his focus, and anchoring
Him back to sobriety,
Finally he disembarks from Cabbage Mound,
Turning his back to feathered insight
And slowly sinking behind the hill,
A bowl of porridge takes his place,
And so, it shall stay
Until the finches start to natter
And their hunger begins to ache.

Twin doves endure the naked rookeries
Of Whitechapel, a breached stronghold
Tangled in the roots of blurred obituaries,

These birds are forerunners of old
Heartbreak. And the frosty window panes
Conceal the words that have been rolled

Into spears that pierce our seeping pains.
Oh do not speak of her: the solemn widow
Who perches drenched, staring at drains  

Wishing to ride the golden echo
Of a love she forgot to let go.

The cobbled roads
Are bestowed with toppled leaves,
A verdant dressing upon the lanes
Of old Warfield,

Perhaps a warning
To you and me, not
To follow the estranged lanes
Like the lone tractor
Teasing the outskirts
Of the wooden curtain,

Devil woods that drape  
Over her buried majesty;
The venerable body
Of old Warfield, and

Are you one who rambles?
One who marches
In the bitter spit
Of frozen streams, and
One who claws at the hedges
For famished berries
That wither into dreams,

And are you the one
That I shall take with me?

One who seeks
The bustling labour
Of vanishing bees, and
One who gawps at the larks
Who dive from
The roving rookeries,

No, you are the liberal feather
Flailing in the breeze, and
The one who
Tethers to the curves
Of falling seeds, oh

I should have been woeful Prufrock
Confessing on the fiendish walk
Until I am anchored by the knees.