Constellations Echo Lanes

Dust of football fields still rising
To a cardboard moon
Wreaths of dark linoleum are
Sailing to the moon

Tea at the refectory
Then your fingers start to freeze
As the nights draw in
And we drift like smoke

White nights rise
Birds all night
Calling from the downs Whin
Flowers bloom
Empty rooms
Walls turn into flowers
And inside you something changed
Something falling away

Constellations echo lanes, the pylons and the still parade