It is an equinox of a year

when many of the certainties

with which we had lived

slowly unravelled

the words written in the dirt

of unwashed freight vehicles

on poorly lit routes

could they show the way?

(no)

I have no industrial past

grief as mental illness

mental illness as grief

another delirium

so come in

and join me in

a draught of peace mead

and supermarket Spanish red wine

and toast the Cathars

and any other heroes

who have not fallen from grace

subsumed within the contours

and the magical thinking of bottles

as good as any place anywhere

in this imperfect present tense

and don’t worry about

expiated thought processes

is the past still alive

and being continually repeated?

or is it us who are suspended

in super slow motion

interred in the defining moments

of our respective countries?

you lost tribe

man your crannogs

woman your canoes

shoulder your loving

hey you damned

get ready for the fever

of your revelation

in a wasp-induced September

insects queue at exterior lights

while rotting fruits

marry fallen leaves

in stagnant holy water

but the earth still spins