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
Elena presented all the lost Marys of Romania.
Alina the songs of innocence, Mark marched
and found something missing in the crowd.
becomes a view.