I have walked down the down roads,

springing no bogs and soft focus

tunnels of hedges, white at the edges

green scraps and the magenta atomizer 

of 

cool

spring

dawns,

All touching me to somewhere like rotating radii, 

Splashing out amber and circles

Of fungi and lichen (all living)

And, I, who had hopes of exposure to aid memory

The greens, grey

The whites, but white

The reds, black as nights

Now hanging on the wall in Petra’s room, and also

Down the hall and through the first door

On the right

Sitting on tables, next to ashtrays and noble thoughts

Scrawled onto disused checkbooks

That paid for a dawn walk through St. Briavels.