DMV

(Deserted Mediaeval Village)

I’m the cat that tested and turned

until finding a perfect corner

of the room that is just a floor plan of how it was.

I slid horizontal

to drink-in sleep under open sunshine: dreams,

where others may have tried, lousy in rags,

loosing spittle, blood or expectorate snores. I stir,

see a room that was tidied twice - though nature

still crawls over an opposite corner; reclaims,

covers the scabs with bracken, stitchwort,

bramble and red bells of whortleberry.

There’s a cowpat on shag-pile grass. I’d love

to stab a tiny green and white-crossed

Devon flag through its crust, under-mush

and into the patch of moor it blinded.

It’ll mark the splat where nicotine-skinned flies

skip like island dancers: their moment

in the history of here. A waft

fetches me some of their joy. They eat shit

and die. Colour muddies, then voids.

One good hammer of rain will push us all aside.