There’s smoke in the out house
but no dragons to drink with
The flamed heather that Heats it
the hazel that was weaved to fan.
Copper kettles thaw Iced rivers
that flow into barrels
that are emptied in late hours
And how will you bequeath blame
for sore heads and tails then.
Scrapped cans and nineteen fifty little fibs
scary cats and cawing crows
scattering the empty slag heaped vales.