I can write no more, nor less. I should confess
but no one reads this so we are all write
in the sense of staying somnolent. The lank tress
of our lady saved from the dragon that wild night
lies on the trellis where the laity
can worship it. That’s what they like to do.
Beyond their sense and my ability
the Fates weave strands from her fair hair and strew
them on the waters that continue rising.
Canute had better luck rebuffing waves
than you and I have, sat here fantasising
against the ills set free in óur times. Nothing saves
our faces or our children. The penny drops.
The lady is forgotten. Our story stops.