Tracing shadows gets you nowhere fast,

quite literally. Nowhere is a place

like here, like everywhere. It has a past,

a present, honours the eternal race

of seasons. Colours have the strangest smells

in cuckoo-land. Our green is thin and tart,

compared. Gold dust kept clogging up their wells;

I mucked them out and piled it in a cart

to carry through the wilderness. That's why

the well on all my banners. Have some tea?

The sulphur really wakes it up. The pie

is cheese and nightshade. No? Well, more for me!

No coming home again: dreams out of range,

awake first light to welcome-in the change.