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The bogcotton moves in the wind
And a part of it detaches
Like a spiderling and climbs into
The air and breaks the poplars
And falls to earth in the orchard
Where no bogcotton can grow.

Others tangle in the hazel and the
Peach brickwork of the chimney
And the trellis' grey wood and the
Wet trench behind the grow bags
Or sail down the line of rooftops
Or rustle down into beds of gravel.

The knotted hawthorns all cancerous
And engriddled make a noise of the
Sea as they shiver the gusts off
Their mishapen shoulders and white
Cottonseeds have founded in them
Here and there like ghostly leaves.

The bogcotton lies in the shadow
Of the ancient bolus of ivy trunks
That coil and throttle the remnant
Of a hawthorn over the pool and at
Times it seems the tree will tip and
Break the water and scatter white.