Rice paper. 

If Menai is strait along the bridge 

then there is one less place too

Search for this feather that’s 

Floated from that Indian jacket 

He lost whilst running from 

Historic bowler hat 

For this here witch 

That used to sleep amongst the 

Hazel through the winters night

By the seaside

The book I found that mothers 

Once bound left my mood black 

as watching this dying sun turning 

into the monsoon the dogs licking 

Their Paws asking for the rice paper

For folding into organised religion.