Rapscallions twined together on the hearth in Beecher Lane; heads of iron pickets pummel down like summer clubs on the gossamer veil, too faint to billow much in protestation or pomp. Vigour loosed from the veins, trigger pulled to ring, trap and click and runabout because the dogs.
Wild luring on the baked lap in green, tried and shuffled out of crisscrossed framed panes; never did the stamping mind the ruts, the jointed arms of coloured gravel that spring, aloes’ arms from the holes of the fake, wavering head. The pincers collect, and leave the silence like water behind. We break the silence and begin the whole again with a rustle and a bite.