through the mirror
into elsewhere

dark doorways
grey plaster walls

footprints in dust
the jester
the two
the three
and him.

the one that you seek
the one who wrote the words.

abrupt beginnings
perplexing ends

another world
just out of sight

bridges arch
span the deep waters
running dark and slow.

creaking wheels, ancient coach
black horses

the tolling bell

two footmen
three ghosts
the jester
and well,

you know…

follow the path
up onto the moorland

stand in the cold swirling air
a biting wind frozen still.

by the table of kings
all seven watching
skin like moonlight
and eyes like wolves

far in the distance
the procession moves
in the mist.

voices in the aether
cannot be heard

swim down in the watery light
to the gaunt stick tree

crouch

under a parliament
of rooks.
calling out
contempt.

the land is treacherous

this England gone
no longer yours.

the little band disappearing into the
thick biting air.

your footing is poor
and you stumble

reaching out
in vain

falling

into the darkness

silence

under stars