Nick Temple
			SENT ON an icicle error points up the throat of the sky, winged laughter flutters down; eyes are muddied grey, piecing an ermined landscape view and, briefly, it holds each squawk and whistle harmonised, each tongue and palate cleaved a ball of phlegm rolls up intended words, flattening the patter, and socketed orbs roll heavenward gesturing resignation and shame - a kept sign but a means of freezing sense, kneading tenses into cumulus stones; holding down the corners.