"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.