Out of the furze and fuchsias to whisper sweet nothings, wren pivots as fast and sharp as thought. With the domes sending out high volts-per-metre charges, a house comes available. Wren says, I’m resident year round, and will greet you here on St Stephen’s day. I won’t die at your door, I will fly below radar. And I say: I am not one for the old ways, and for what it’s worth, I’ll watch out for you— nobody will put you in a box, stick you on a beribboned holly branch, bury you with a red cent. We never required Gothic in these parts, says the Wren, the intricate vaulting of the hedges suffices, and it always aspires up beyond the mountaintop. A gang of boys passes by, striking hedges with hurleys, wary of the girls walking ten steps behind.
Wren’s Electric Field Strength