There ought to be a fund for that.
My dreams have got strange. I think it is the coldness of my room. London feels reluctant to admit to cold, make it a truth that winter is here.
Better than seeing Christmas trees up when the sun is out and somehow, most of the leaves on the deciduous trees are still around, even if they are brown.
Scribblings below. I wish I were nearer the sea.
This low ebb sinks sea-down,
feather-down, chasing the places the black mood began
and you can, you can, you can, wild cry to the waves and
blast-haired, gale-roving, strip off whatever binds you
and if dawn finds you tugging at the bottom of a rock
like sea-weed, dredge out the bay and God-speed into the
ripped out tide.