The inside of my bones

The inside of my bones
Know this December light
Know this December cold
And Angus pulls on his lead.

A white Highland terrier.
Your bedside companion
Until that December
I took him for a walk.

The inside of my bones
Know this December gust
The surface of my eyes
Gathers so much gritstone.

My December vigil
Your bedside, Mum. Your breath
Irregular like gust.
Went to Dad about it.

I told Dad about it.
“Take Angus for a walk”
And the gust blew the grit.
And Angus pulled his lead.

Home half hour later asked
Where you were. Ambulance
Had taken you away.
I’ve never seen you since.

Gust is ghost breath and still
Brings water to these eyes.
The inside of my bones
Know this December cold.

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After Arrival By Heritage Diesel One December Day At Howarth

One December Afternoon at Manvers Lake

Manvers Lake Sculptures

The Scryer of Wombwell (August 1467)

I have committed heresy
Scrying the place of stolen goods
Through this crystal stone
And thus burn these pages
In repudiation.

I must lead procession in churches
York, Rotherham, Doncaster, Barnsley
Wearing these paper notices ‘Behold
the Soothsayer’, ‘Invoker of Spirits’.

Invoker of Christ and the angels
From these burning pages

Through this virginal twelve year old boy
who holds an engraved crystal stone.

A crystal engraved with the secret
Names of God a sacred clear stone
That takes our questions to angels
who answer our earthly enquiries.

I said to the angels ‘Saye me trewe,
chylde, what man, what woman,
or what childe hase stolne yis thing,
and shewe me thyng in his hand’

Books are rare but must burn
Only permitted words allowed
They have been lenient.
I could have burned as these pages.

My name is William Byg, or Lech
Of Wombwell and the year fourteen sixty seven. The lords
Of Wombwell are happy with their recovered goods.

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