I quiver amongst vaulted halls of cathedral
these skeletons of summer,
struck into the belittling hills
by the abandoned hands of winter nature.
These wheezing ribs part callously for
the vengeful knives of a bullying winter wind
and cackle as I am plunged through
again and more to a riven stagger
for the satisfaction of some higher pleasure.
Adjudged, I’m brought in from the scourging of
the raining blades.
We begin by the rituals of your northern brew,
my southern tea,
the brown heat of Bolton comedic ministries,
an opening defence against my forthright
as I scale your flattened vowels
and mount silent challenges to your

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