Bath

Alone on this grey island,
Full of polite silences,
The polished planes of my tongue begin to reflect
The stars,
That come out here in the day.

In every moment, the mists take a hold of my ankles
And draw me forward:
Through close set woods and thickets,
Across lakes and cobble lanes,
And on narrow tracks, home to all manner of
Sprites,
And water creatures.

Still, still, the blue ears of these creatures furrow me out
Because I cannot mask the red dirt
Trapped beneath my fingernails
Or the bitter slime that seeps, unbidden,
From the centre of my heart.

In my dreams
I am stalked by the black Gytrash of the North,
All teeth and foam,
Until I stumble, on wet grass,
And am done for.