Under the mardy yew-trees
owls in stately rows –
identity parades of strange gods,
red-eyed, pondering –
lazily compose themselves
as daylight runs down the drain
to a dark reconstructing itself
against declining sun.
The sussed soon learn this poise,
detached from the world
of temporal disorder:
while pissheads drunk on shades,
incapable of sitting still,
keep on getting it in the neck.