Wryneck Bittern 1919

Moonlight milk and honey balm

Croham Hurst’s acred boughs.

Sacred beech, I approach, heavy browed,

with gift for the archbishop’s palm.

.

His Grace, at the bar, dishevelled

glasses, resplendent, resembling

ale keg, East German anarchist,

bon viveur, hedge, and cavalier,

proves himself a carefree dancer.

.

With ceremony of taper,

of mantled candles: tea lights, jarred;

also, saucered, ashtrayed, slated,

I created spark in the hearth.

.

Despite the distance; thumb and finger,

portent everywhere, nowhere, he appears –

wryneck, bittern – at 19:19;

pockets spilling papered scraps –

betting slip, banknote, bar tab, wraps

his coloured beads, keep keen steeplechasers.

For Mik, fuzz bass RIP