I must down
Ensnared by a sea of sheets and squalls of sickness,
Out my rain-spattered porthole I peer:
Steaming by, a breasting behemoth of cloud –
A veritable fleet of weatherships – crowning Tysoe Hill.
The trees beneath are porous at this time of year:
Squint between their splayed withy fingers
And foresee remembrances, which
In summer will be masked by verdant fire;
Yet now thaw my beached body, deep in its brumous sleep.
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