Dylan's Grove -Lockdown Kosh Groove

I went to our grove and found it tangled.

It’s not our watercress bed, but knot-weed

and orchids blooming orphrys’ biography,

hanging lone chain-mail clanging a weave

through the green. Nobody would want to come

here anymore.The Village had shrunk-in on itself,

shrunk again and shrunken heads spiked and fallen

footballs of pig and goat gut for children long gone.

 

On Dylan’s bench, carved inscription etched.

I wanted to see them too as watery hieroglyphs

drawn by Monet’s impressions and Turner’s

smudges, take the light, take a stone

and leave it there. 

 

But it was cold, the iron windmill

on the fireplace tipped to freewheel 

a starfish from the top of Black Boy hill

unrolling the stolen canvas buried under a tree.

 

Elena presented all the lost Marys of Romania.

Alina the songs of innocence, Mark marched 

and found something missing in the crowd.

 

By the bench, this is how we are not alone, and how a mote