Wind, forced-entry moaning thin; 
tractor crawling up the hill
Farmer Maggot
tearing furrows in the land;
tall peak beyond, nuggeted in white 
rock-pocketed, a moon;
nearer, nearer, all our alders lean
gnarled and broken, choked with palegreen lichen,
trunks slope drunkenly;
outwith our fence, marsh grasses restless
bleached by sun, wind-stirring, hear them whispering;
over all the cloud banks gather and augment one another, 
tattered edges merge 
to muffle and subdue what little
winter light pales through.

In here, inside, water climbs the walls,
electricity fuses, fails,
books float off their shelves
bob and jiggle to a corner
congregate, saturate, submerge,
waterlogged covers twist and run
as I tread the water rising,
try to dodge the struts and spars,
the driftwood drifting -
we all fight for air. 
I eye a jar of whisky wobble by
raise my eyes, disgust, the lowering ceiling 
strikes my head.

Flotsam and jetsam 
collects beneath my feet 
gives no foothold, dips and shifts 
security of stance 
non-existent -
what with water in the ears
blotting of the eyes
tides pouring down the throat - I too am
waterlogged and sinking
my costume's blue running thin as ink.

Shifting wood bruises as it moves,
I shed my shoes and think I slowly lose
a sense of purpose -
dim shifting water-gleam, dark murk floating room -
and my bells won't ring. 

I drift, have no rope to clasp, no ally here
to grab my hand, pull me free,
no friend to jest with me,
and all I am -
my sodden cap, my silenced bells -
is a Fool 
whose song and dance
makes no difference to despair
for there is no rock, no light, no dry land here.
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