Little Auk of the green corridors,

Arctic flip-flap of the undug dugout,

Alluvium piper of wetted socks

and the great spines of tyres-

sit you on Treacle Mustard,

the untiled roof of this

brokedown house,

the business eyes that coat you in flint;

Sing to them of knick-knacks,

this spear-head, done-in lake

meandered to death in wandering...

O Little Auk!

Flit you across the axe-rich earth,

so Bright High over the red hoods

of the two-wheeled men.