it’s a washed out sort of day
the cloudy undercarriage of morning / of mourning
and it’s all hands to the pump
we’ve got to move the heavy
Elizabethan church pew out of the broken chapel
into the long grass
it’s a nice piece of work even though the wood
is cracking up, little bits gouged out of it by insects,
by tiny hammers of rain
did you see the tender packaging of green heart-shaped
tree-seeds? they might sustain us
or they might sustain our souls
but hey lack-a-day,
that’s another whole area that’s up for discussion
(the souls I mean) as long as you listen and don’t start shouting