Kingdomland

The dark village sits on the crooked hill.
There is a plot of impassable paths towards it,
impassable paths overcome with bees,
the stigma that bees bring.
There is a bottle neck at the base of the hive.
There is an impassable knowledge that your eyebrows bring.
Beside the poor library and the wicker-man,
there's a man who sells peacock feathers on the roundabout,
they scream all night from where they are plucked.
The village is slanted, full of tragedies with slate.

I am walking towards a level crossing,
while someone I love is jogging into the darkness.
Come away from there, I am yelling,
while the black dog rolls in the twilit yard.
Small white socks bob into the dark like teeth in the mouth
of a laughing man, who walks backwards into night,
throwing drinks into the air
like a superstitious wife throws salt.
We all have our share of certainties.
The glass and salt my petulant daughter,
glass and salt my crooked pathway; impassable glass and salt.