the worms were turning

so they fed them football

away the lads

 the sun a breeze

flowing through the gardens

afternoon doze

 gathering storm

on the wind’s lamppost 

a lone wood pigeon 

 love in the sand

amongst all the footprints 

my wife’s bunions

 here again

the fox with the white tail

passing through

 night

a well of lament

bucketing down

 caterwaul 

of a cat on a wall

at midnight

 the music 

of the dawn breeze

in the flowers

 a bee’s

agnostic spirit of being

a spider

 all blood and matter

and quite a bit of water

under the bridge

 that moment

between summer and autumn 

without a sound

 so far away

we have crossed the bridge

of no shrine