lampoon of traditional British values
their light lifts the lids upon my eyes.
The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart
The candle burns stiff and still
Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain
The wind roars up the avenue
Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. "The Treasure yours."
hum of the threshing machine
wood pigeons bubbling with content
