I wear the fragrance on my neck.
Branches jut in barky-fingers;
Woodbine suckles nightly screams
and moans; the faithful Violets nod.
A noxious burn of Muskrose scent:
wilting beauty, youth capricious -
the dead breeze blows... blows.
Clog of sound, clog of breath,
cloistered dome of stifled air.
The Elms: they strain, they creak, they crane
their hooded crowns upon the bank,
and muffle and gag the groans.
A snake chokes upon his own skin.