I can picture you
with many-headed horses
amongst stars unswung
hear your laughter
in the Mistral ‘the idiot wind’.
But you are not in
You are here on Castle Hill
swaying beech trees
where St Walburge’s
cannot outspire the Pennines.
Why the stars so bright and loud?
The processions of mist walking on the summits?
The long lapping tongue of a death-hound?
You are silent
but from a small room
in a distant asylum Van Gogh speaks:
“we take death to reach a star”.