Gentle moss sleeps
Between the stiff grey crags
Outside my door.
Upstairs my ghost creates
stories within the memory flat
I have no key for.
Writers voice complains
in my jar of skull crammed scrap
his sullen war
and who’s to say what notes cannot be played?
Outside, a fat and throaty bird is coughing…
Shall all my keys lay dusty with the weight
of our traditions? Every balding faith?
…in elbow holding breeze. An empty morning.