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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.
page 89
Plan for our death On the long lane out of Hallaton I spotted death heading for someone else. I pulled my head in while he passed, drawing a springe, whose stock was cloud, jaws were blasted beech, and tarmac was his plate. I asked if he would come for me, not yet of course, when we were slept like spoons, to save us all the waste of time. His answer was a spookish draught that loosed the last wytch-leaf along the tump, and danced it in the dark. 81

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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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