"Bad Dreams" — another short poem from the days when the days were bad. I look back with a "phew!-glad-that's-over" sigh of relief. I also see the "pathetic fallacy" there or maybe I'm being too critical.

The stale weed sickens

and along the fens

a slow bird sings retiringly.


Fishermen retreat from buckled ponds -

their useless nets

a stunning memory of every past-by hour.


These are the days 

when madmen howl the moon from hiding.


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