Stacked-stones mossify,
fadesome inscriptions borne.
Ice-stream air; monastic village.
Roots rise;
water falls;
Autumn leaves.
Ducks duck their beak-led heads,
here where
the lake’s submerged this bench.
Me: Ravioli (Must’ve been tinned!).
You: Zipzapped ready-meal.
Us: Hotel dinner.
Phone light frames
where walking-boots will tread.
A bat in sound-search flight.
Ghosts of other solar systems…
Your flick’ring fire?
The banshee’s cry.
william altoft 