Conker Song II

In the only village hall, wearing snakeskin boots

Stones that chip the smooth well wall, on their way as fruits

In the larch pine soak and stew, how sharp have you slipped

As if, silver-buttered you, tacked to jacket rips

On the floor so imagine all the first fine tufts

Of a golden blanket in leaves and linking cuffs

Windfall apples in some ranks, pockmarking the grass

So quivers the foam at banks, flows the stream at last