Buck Stones (Trenchfeet)

Guidepost with carved fingers

pointing upwards.

I follow to a green knoll,

a cagouleless fool,

trying not to break my neck

betwixt beck and outcrops of rocks.

Descending through vapour

of blueberry flava douche flutes,

dodging demons conjured from smoke;

angels appear out of mist,

beckoning from ecumenical escarpments.

Shout-outs of view halloo

to the grouse in da house,

with a larynx like honeyed heather.

The thistles bristle as

bracken buckles underboot

and krakens rise on the horizon.

Jostling with a throstle

to occupy the space vacated

by glowing tips of Superkings.

And now I know

(yes, I know)

that the whole world

is insane.

B.R. 21.10.2021

The author - lost, helpless and hopeless,
"On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at".
Picture by B.R.