Tired now just got back from the Teach Ruiori’s pub,
Rode the bike back – fullish moon veiled by mysterious fog that breaks the light and makes all the bog around a ghostly curtained blackness,
Dark shapes loom and turn out to be gorse and reeds and heather,
Barbed wire and split rail posts guide the edges of the gravel’s crunch filled double tracked lane,
My hair and eyelashes collect the dewy mist so that I cry crocodiles tears in the warmth of this wet night with no rain or wind,
Guinness for strength! the signs say and fueled with it I glide and coast through cloud to the galvanized gate of Clo.