Low winter sun

slung like rope

among leaves and


lassos me homeward

every which way but

I know not where

or why.


Hither and thither

I am pulled to a place

that gives up not its ghosts,

but the presentiment

of a dream dreamt by a dreamer

who by chance or fate

has wound up here,

at the river’s edge,

where downstream the weir

worries and gargles.


But here and now,

in the dark,

where all is still, and

the day and moment

long gone,

there is just me,

these words,

and a sketch map,

hastily drawn,

of a land where the sun

never quite rises and

never quite sets.




15 November 2012, 6pm