The gulls will fly, spread wide,
The joyous remains of dinner,
And all the motors cry acid,
Paint cracked and weeping.

Dogs baying someone's name,
A windscreen harshly spidered in the moonlight,
Wait! Stop! Feels like I'm followed,
Turn around, betrayed by shadow.

Radios shout, the news! The news!
He is dead, alive, both, neither,
All these contradictions only strengthen resolve,
All slides away, like a lost sled on a slope.

And unaware of it all,
Mrs. McCleod carries on with her ironing,
Listening to some Rachmaninov,
And wondering if the weather will clear up in time for her holiday in Salcombe, because she's been looking forward to it for absolutely ages and it's been such a long time since she went to Devon.