The fen-light fails. The heron lifts.
A horn speaks once from the blackened ridge.
Who rides the causeway with unlit eyes?

Who bears the token the dead still keep?
Queen of the threshing floor, stand.
Your wheat is ash. Your barn is a mouth.

The reeve has sold the river’s name.
The mill-wheel turns on a stranger’s oath.

Bring out the bronze that never learned mercy.

Bring out the cloth cut under a comet.
The marsh remembers every boot.
The reeds lean west and will not lie.

Prince of the unlatched gate, turn back.
Your banner drinks. It will not drink you.
A child has counted the horses twice.

The second count was only wind.
They come with lanterns sewn in their coats.
They come with laws that smell of tin.

The old stone cross has shut its face.
The well will not give up its coin.
Wait for the drum that is not a drum —

the bittern’s knock on the ribs of night.
Wait for the woman who names no king.
She keeps the spark in a hollow key.

If the ring of water should break its vow,
if the last red fox should cross the road,
then open the chest the monks forswore
and give the field what the field is owed.

The battle is older than either host.
It wears our hands. It wears our breath.

Let the pipers walk the drowned mile.
Let no one claim the morning yet.

:: rev,98,2026, ::