Silence in the glade: a slant of breeze
lifts through the twigs of the leafless trees.
"It's Time Everlastin' - you know of this place?
It settles across old Lympne Hill in its grace
when Christmastide falls on the fulsome oak moon
and dancing becomes our delight and our doom."
He slumps in his cups, a crack of a smile
loose on the leather of his lemon face.
"Come sit beside me and I'll weave you a tale
of night never-over, of endless wassail;
of journeys unfinished, of glamours and glooms -
of folks left abandoned by God to these fumes."
She cannot move. A mock of a scream
falters in her throat, throttling her breath.
"I know of a song that can set out the truth
of why we've been caught in the nets of the youth
who came from the east with a curse on his hands
to build a new kingdom in our blessed lands."
Her knees unhinge and hit the earth:
a stump of flint furrows her cheek.