It is a tepid dragon’s breath
rises above Jersey’s cryptic swamp.
How high the mist?
Not high enough to climb the noble sky.
Anchored moss in all its sludge cannot
hold back the slippery wyvern
until the time when he sees fit to
roll his tongue towards darkness;
to clear the morn of dusty sweat,
reveal the lucid air until
tomorrow’s dawn cries up
dusty dragon tears.