If the wolf-cub clouds clumped for warmth on the sky-like heather
are an excuse for opening with an observation about the weather
I walked in this afternoon, then the later chimney-sweep’s broom of
crows endeavouring through the sunset’s pumpkin glow to remove
the blockage of shed wolf-hair, by way of perpetual circular
motion, from the towering hollow between the coal-coloured
motorway and the ozone dome must, surely, be seen
as a sight for which memory was made. The crows, I mean:

there was something in their refusal, despite all else, to be end-
stopped that made theirs a state of impossible aspiration,
the best I can hope for being the justified placing
of my hand near yours, something upon which a little must depend.