To rest

Of the middle ranking there's none. Over close to summer's bet the trim tribes go weekly To the fine feathered gorse. Plained over hill they see the bunched meadowland. Not a thing to say but pillage its common abundance.

Resting and repose are not necessary at this twitch of the air's muscle.Its calmed their fear, and she's rough breeze by the sigh of the piece.Not a narrow ridgeway or crosspiece to counting but food for everyone and the lairs of fox.

Mona's varnished her tools and buttonecd up
her boots,
her belt's undone and the marrying mothers come
militan in their weaving folk

an astral sign for the rainbow.