A Red the lurid shade of rotten roses dyes
Bloody the sun’s sinking skies above wind swept dock streets,
Dreaming lazedly about curious shoppes along lanes twistingly followed,
And what rode in on strange winds brought from sleepy seas.
Amongst their draughty alleys he made
Enquiries of all craft purveyors wizened
Or young, with their secret sigils
Or those particular altar finneals.
No joy there among those odd stores
Of needful things and biscuits buttered,
By knives far sharper than want sheepish spirits
Of mortality, grown and mortally breeding.