Moths fly out of the wallets laughing
Landing on the blind slats
Dig deep, inscrutable, ashen haired
You wish.
Far and away the best thing there,
Look at you on the glossy cover
So don’t describe it proud,
Return to bedroom.
Sit still and listen:
The small English village graveyard
As early scholastic neighbour.
‘Reach skyward’ for the flightpath?
‘And don’t stop until you see your eyebrows.’
Sam Huddlestone 