Constellations Echo Lanes

Dust of football fields still rising

To a cardboard moon

Wreaths of dark linoleum are

Sailing to the moon

Tea at the refectory

Then your fingers start to freeze

As the nights draw in

And we drift like smoke

White nights rise

Birds all night

Calling from the downs Whin

Flowers bloom

Empty rooms

Walls turn into flowers

And inside you something changed

Something falling away

Constellations echo lanes, the pylons and the still parade