1 New Poem

A Dear Green

I scour the scrapyard,
hopeful to strike riches,
some spot of land:
shimmering acre to draw
around with fenceposts,
anchor wire and call alone.

I arrive in carriage time,
flouting rule and upriver dancing,
from scattershot ravine echoes
that trap ourselves in
fearful amber, in rancor
of things left apart.

I lose some pinwheel grace,
no longer broken glass of
bottle colour and heavy sole
upon soil in crashing through
night windows and to the
warm, embracing place all alight.