Roof tiles flayed by a blunt north wind; a standpipe spews drain-water like a Saturday night lush. Upstairs (in her secret temple) Juno sleeps on a silk birthing bed
Today young earth is bathed in His best gold the warm hillocks shaped by Creation and Flood - perfect arcs and angel-trees moulded by His own hand. The earth is a reflection
The sleeping head of a hanged drayman preserved in a bell jar. The ghost of his wife stares through glass, the dusty crevices of the building heavy with age,
Adam strapped in the patient's chair, a sugar-coated phial loaded between his teeth. Dr Wu drilling key-holes into soft crowns of skull, injects fizzy sherbert
(i) Voyager in his long coat and valance hat uncovering the caulked boat among the reeds. Like a sodden cardinal he unfolds the blade, hides it within the binding of his pouch.