riding through the wild ways

the green lays

the driven baize

and blinded

by the rain brilliant

bitumen burnishing

sun strafed degenerate rays

every crested rise

revealed an air superior

gray dicing the mazarine,

slicing the fourteen plus,

between here

and where I should have been

no storied moral here

just a simple trip

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they promised us "no rain" but

here we are

at the aptly named Water Lane

where the trees, be-whiskered of finger,

stroke their leaf free, would be, chins

bemused by roots once dry and thin now

fat and drunk

so let’s begin

we passed a fox

we passed a hound

but then a somewhat grisly mound

mechanically rendered

and from that point south ...

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