Long Mynd

The Christians are a few yards ahead. Green track
lit through curled ferns. Heather's scent of everything,
of God entropy. Caer Caradoc: trace of dead claims;
Eretz Cymru. Yesterday he sang, Take me back to 
the Black Hills, in wavering falsetto. Inhuman folds
from before anybody said anything. Empty beech nut
shell: dead genital mouth. Low weave of branches.
Broken shortbread mushrooms. Shat-upon
fleece scraps. Weathered bowl of water trembles.
Blood touched fleece with a scraped-clean scapula.

I wanted to catch you up. You didn't want me, but
I'm forever having to remember lines. Bastard wind
sharpening this bastard boy: I have eyes that I might