All the birds of the dusk

sound beautiful. Is there one

that sounds true, that empties

a dark jug drunkenly

as Grafham Water raises its

H²0?  Ah, Keats

I envy you your certainty.

I too would fly by nightingale

if I could be sure that that

that’s like a spring stuttering

out of a broken pipe were the pure

original song, and not

a drug on the market.  Such black

burdens the wings of my enchantment,

it plunges off the green grid

and there is nothing.  That magic

flew with your age,

and leaves me in the dark with mine.