Death mask.

Would you wash your well worn death mask 

Made of all those orchard grown dreams 

before coming back to earth having 

hidden what you stole in trees.


Alone in the night on the Salem tiles 

Creeping along the rooftop toothless 

Smiles trying to hide behind blacked 

out blinds whilst timing the torch 

until charred.


If you awake in the night 

How are you to explain 

a summer spent Staring at maps 

binding you too sea charts.


The river called to enquire if you could reed 

your way back on a blade of grass 

to signal back your intent on this 

line to to watch the field charge.


The blue sky’s are often lined in the softest 

silver clouds imagine climbing to the summit 

to chase after what is hidden 

In the stratosphere there’s a archer 

In the sky right.