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The world is white: under a blank-penny sun I pedal down the dingle past Dug the Donkey, up to Slobland View, and out by Fortune’s Field:
80 The stir wide, long, thick with jackdaw-heads like stacked potatoes, shut-eyed in the wind, that burble, fluff and jostle as I roll my head along their height of hedge:
so they take off, and leave in one pitch-wave my sweeping skull, peeling off the plough-striped counterpane with caws of ecstasy, and up-dissolve away.
The night clock stares its silver coin at one a.m. – I hear you bombling up the stairs, and lift the sheet away, and wait to leave the common ground.
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