GOSPORT: 4 a.m.
Rows of rowing boats on end
stacked against a wall
like mildewed sarcophagi;
spirits out tonight, walking,
over the water lost.
Bees and moths and wasps,
small technicolour dreams
droning like
fog horns;
slowly aimed at mast lights,
the street lamps of the shore.
A sudden mist of wings
sipping the numina, the life
of each. On my window
multicoloured insects tap:
now drugged by summer,
the buzz of sunrise:
looking for a way in.
