Winter was not that far behind, it never was, it was there touching the shoulder.
Feeling the cold breath on my shoulder, unaware of the seasons touch:
time trawls…. Still under the enchantment of this Yorkshire moon,
just as Phosphorus is welcoming the opportunistic hand that drops
down the through the saturated clouds: drawing and invigorating –
some blind puppeteers fumbling.
I find the first cigarette – the mechanics of the arm deposit between my
lips the metallic click – Then silence. My brain needs that double espresso of nicotine –
the orange and the blue – The first spark of smoke filling my lungs.
The dawn – every day I seek out coffee my Lourdes and my Matins from lists of places
up the cobbled streets and down ravenous tramlines: –
From Samford Bridge – to – Howden – to – North Ferriby – to – Elloughton – to – Brough –
and finally to –Beverly. Back across The Moors.