Night folds,
a clasp, snapped shut.
The moon, a bone-cold handle,
drags whole oceans black
in one stiff move.

Grass shivers.

Crisp packets, startled
from their homes
of gutters and bus shelters,

throw themselves, in stark blasts,
beneath the wheels of passing cars.

A strip of bunting jerks free.
Its tail-end flaps erratic
against glass fronts of shops.
Bricks and mortar look on.
Foxgloves drop their lips.

A mass of cracked plaster
does nothing

to allay the fate
of each ruddy stone,
that crumbles
beneath the weight of another.