Thoughts formed in a moment

And afterwards the memory of chatter

Why not

Fugitives take flight

And how then

Becomes a mantra

Of municipal car parks, sacred amulets, rain fields

That may contain Anglo-Saxon treasure.

To coincide with news from abroad

We took the remaining boats down to the south of the island

From here clear across the archipelago

The sea had turned a petrol hue

Simple rhythm sustained us through the harsh winter months

Small clinks and rustles marked out the time

Between sunrise and nightfall

Myths and legends became our food

The library our kitchen

Piled up like a buffet

Of all you can

Eat.