No bright. No mullock moon. No day, no night.
No texture left, no crack of ice nor ridge
of dirt so hard it jars the knees, instead
just rain. Muck, sucks and sighs the breath of fog;
where mushrooms, mildew, lichen creep like ghosts
to polka dot the trees with evil eyes.
Water races, clotting; bubbles gravy
then drowns the kings and crowns of ancient days
whose bones clap up upon the lids of crypts.
Not wrapped in ermine, jewels nor golden robes
but dressed in plastic bags. Littered, regal
with purple moss, pink bottle tops for pearls.
No bright. No mullock moon. No day. The sky
sweat stained, in watered silk of mud and grey.