I see possibilities arrayed
like a great flagstone path
and each flagstone has moss
and plants grow inbetween

And each flagstone is carved
from stone milled from language
the language of books and films
they are stacked about the path

And the rain and wind-grit
are giving them a hard time
so the titles have ripped off
or faded in the sun – the path

(this may be important)
only appears retroactively
that is – I can only see it
looking over my shoulder.

The path in front of me
looks clean and I am walking
but I don’t mean to be walking
through a mist from the waterfall

Whitby Church Hymn

Those limestone souls, a crowd surge at the gates
where wooden worm-nourishing beams, deny
a crossing of the red river – useless names,
given fresh to the mason master-puppeteer;

Sitting squat, one arm outstretched, and sly
squinting for the sea-spray, grim eyes dripping –
complacent – they tempt to a certain joy, lit
as the moon brings a cawing custom to hope.

But chaos, in its own self certitude
sways slowly forth in undulations of infinite patience
caressing those lucky ones inside

and more are lost, soft names dissolving
as the waiting hollows reveal their shapes, and the less
in turn await their pockmarking