
winter west wind
on the open beach
the white ship left
black shapes cough
in twisted trees
Blue Willow broken
in the whisky-
brown stream
the white ship is gone
coins hold our eyes shut
the west wind
is a razor
across the bare throat
of the yellow sky
Machinery runs like memory
from gate to plate
fat carcases with
no recollection of green
drip blood
a thousand incarnations
connect old links.
At the very end
tidy little lamb chops
with pink barrettes
lie curled under clear plastic
sucking their thumbs.