Heatwaved Harbour

The searsome sun seethes heathaze.

The Crossmaker

A crossmaker – Yesh’wa constructed th’means by which the legion stamped impeer’yul boots on his own people.

Where once I was I am no more – no longer does that me exist.

Lapped at by the coursing mirrored-sky.

Their lines stretch finite.

Gilt African.

The rails run.

The final days of Nefertiti’s childhood.

Pigeon plays his puff-chest charm.

I write; I drink; I’m passed through.

Whate’er shall I write next?

Verdant-vivid is the tall grass.

Th’waste rain-fall flows, fitfully free, unto sea o’er reams of language earth-born.

Flame-flick’ring fire of th’ancient dragon’s tongue callcries – Cymraeg! – o’er where the riverrun writes sediment’ry.

In sea-salt-sandy steps.