O little Auk of the green corridors,
Arctic flip-flap of the undug dugout,
Alluvium piper of wetted socks
and the great spines of tyres-
sit you on Treacle Mustard,
the untiled roof of this
the business eyes that coat you in flint;
Sing to them of knick-knacks,
this spear-head, done-in lake
meandered to death in wandering.
O Little Auk!
Flit you across the axe-rich earth,
so Bright High over the red hoodsof the two-wheeled men.