As the hook pierced its summit
the worm that grew to climb a peak
From out beneath straw hat with pursed Lips
that it contains wreaths of cross swords
As they tried to cultivate staves like men
from withering heart within fields
where Collars that were hung
as memorial flags Above abode of doors
Shuttering Of a changeable season
as feathered heels are slipped Back on.
To walk amongst chimes as strangers
Sit in circles twisting Daisy’s for the
Lost that flew Over and above
the imported Norwegian pine.
reconsider the rooks and then recount
steps back to windmill with a view
of tea hills that became chalk stretching out.