Light searches through, minnows rippling fins sprint the turning wrists of cloud, and the broad weft parts to douse the whole, laid bare, it's neck of silvering loam lifted in angular migrations,
Low tattoo of the swallowing heart, voles laying their bellies across the sifting silt, bogbean stalk the cold shallows, acid in their temporal mutters,
Through the window a curtain blows it's guazy strips in tapers of gossamer, those curling fingers that, in hope the morn will draw you up the splintering causeway, curl their fingers in the cool ringlets of a sighing breeze,
Termites search round a hinge, powdered ochre with dawning rust,
The tor rises to it's chin against the hard lipped horizons pouring down towards ripe dark, full dark, where nothing breathes but Caith Sith, singular eye trained on it's focal onus, and scabrous beetles dig their hollows round the river stones toward the fens