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.