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.