Burned books
taking a handful
of rainy ashes
crimped half burned
paper into his fist
what was some tale
of fair women or
tinker song how
Queen Miracle was
with the stable lads
he’s caught sight
of hawthorn hedge
drizzle & honeysuckle
asking what chance
of nirvana for this
wet rubbishy fistful
and longs to be
merely a grassblade
the singular stare
of the speedwell
maybe a reed flecked
by the reeds
his brothers