The bark men have all gone home. Pails of milk
Wait along the doors to cool in the night,
A reflection of ghost looking up from each one.
Covering cherubim of clouds above,
The boy on the brig has come to the Fens
To find his sister who, he’s been told,
Is buried at the feet of a stranger. His mother says
The same words spoken for the named
Were spoken above his twin. He kneels and draws
An O on each grave as if to reach through the dirt
And bring her tiny bones up to hold to the light,
But the boy blinks and seems to know
A prophet is nothing in his own country
So he walks down to Whittlesea Mere
And stares into the heavens with only a stone
In his pocket and the mirror of sky blind to itself.