I get no signal from the ginnel under shadow lee

so climb back up by high worth fields to hear and see

the flapping peewits crying through an obfuscated dusk,

the croaks of roosting rooks

           on one last billow up

just as a last shaft lights the glassy backs of feather,

black and silver quiver in a sudden sylvan spill.

Could be my last recession. There are

fewer churnings up the forest road.

Nobody almost found redundant spooks at home.

Two party ghosts are coupling

in the moonlight by a parlour fire. The lunar slicks

the shades of flame across their backs.

My creeping self gives rise to ivy up an oaken trunk;

           turns serpentine with orifice and tail;

goes like a slow-worm, with the bell-strokes

down by gradient in gear;

           then plunges up in clumping boots to land

a fine plantation on the brow with peaking larks

in a climactical sensation: sky above

           and reservoir in peace below.