High above boiling rivers of tea,
That feed the trees who’s gnarled knuckles cling to worn paths.
A black dot of a buzzard mews out of a flat slate sky.
Voodoo heads of flax wail,
While catkin snakes slither through moss beds.
Pillows of burgeoning pink blossom prepare to make fruit.
Aliens grow spiralling tentacles with ginger tongues,
Innocent of the ebony vampires drinking their blood.
Old walls contemplate the age of their stones in silence.
Ostara has blown her warm winds through the woods,
All around the signs of oestrus proliferate.
The ever-attentive eyes of Stags miss not a trick.