A long, black car like a hearse parked on a gravelled drive.
A hollow filled with rain water and a door, of all things,
propped up against a box hedge. The hedge is unruly, wild
and tangled and one could fancy that the door
could be opened into a strange pagan hall
that leads into the dark underworld
where earthy tunnels, lit by spluttering lamps,
lead into a secret hall where invisible folk
celebrate the new morning of dark rain.