One morning
The shuttle’s spirit failed to come back
(Japan had trapped it
In a reconstructed loom
Cribbed from smiling fools in Todmorden).

Cloth rotted, in spirit of the nursing.
Its great humming abbeys became tombs.

And the children
Of rock and water and a draughty absence
Of everything else
Roaming over leftovers

Smashed all that would smash
What would not smash they burned
What would not burn

They levered loose and toppled down hillsides.

Then, trailed away homeward aimlessly
Like the earliest
Homeless Norsemen.