Lines near Thetford Forest
November through mist, and morning’s ghost
from
the huddled dark of pines
emerges,
hard-by the bracken and sapling larch.
This fiction stands staring, still
part
of
a dimension it only half-escapes, its bundled senses
strung
between the empty dark
and
autumn here.
I speak and make a cloud, a watermark
betrayal.
Between worlds, the shadow bolts,
ruffling
a
featheredge of fern.
In its wake, the necklace dew
hangs
out a thousand stars.
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