The hills hoist tilts In windmill indecision Hung by its own petard Which always sounded Quite uncomfortable to me As if the rust stained bag of pegs Slung like a smile below the crank Were some brash sporran Not just a place to keep your keys As Dr Freud would have said A tangling cat’s cradle Trailing kelp ends The wire hung In slack loops For cockatoos to swing In the asbestos afternoon The rain a loudening drum A cry, the bird is gone Shoulders wet The leaves and blades In eye twitch shuddering Turn the other way The trapeze as empty As Sylvia’s dead trees
