they were ravenous crows
who pecked me
and tried to disrupt my nest
those who pounded my door
till wood splinters
found me on a hill of spilt soup

now i feel strong weather
in places of doom
there are cracks of broken bone
and shards of distilled moon

as i lay down on my bed
and dived in deep,
to the word of craft
which helps me feel complete

lorries back up
in the car park of england
the december cold
adds a sharpness
to the post brexit dream

corruption is a sickly sauce
smeared,
across their contemptible faces
morals,
seem ill advised