In that dream, the listing moon
three-quarters black, a vessel
capsized by a buckled storm
of sullied dishcloth clouds
spilled light till it drained
bright scimitar blade dulled.
I stood, mid-ford, and looked
downstream to Coppice Plain
watched alder twigs scratch the gale
rook wings clawing at the void
and the river running backwards
up the valley to the Woodlands.
A story flopped on the doormat
a telling of hedgerows uprooted
ponds filled in, the moorhen ousted
by devilish artifice, infinite variety
evicted by an aluminium bunker
humming with trivial commerce.
Somewhere close a farmer sobbed
his child smothered by a hill of grain
milk soured in the cow’s udder
and one by one, without ceremony
from barn to bedroom to pantry
he was putting the lights out.