Ivy or something like it lays
on the rooftops, the colour
of some wine as more dogs muck among
the leg heights. You know, they filmed
films here, multiple, disciplined
the homes if they changed their
visage from moviedom. 

Birds-eye Castle Combe looks like a scar,
human eyes are level at door-tops not
modern people sized, camera eyes
leer into front rooms, while in church
the dead eyeless drink english rain water
and the river too when it comes up
which is yearly.

Just outside, trees with branches
slung uncut, imitate lay people,
arrange, and one of them, among
a path with triple options (so many!), 
sets down its range of mini apples, mini 
as pickled eggs but greener. 
The river stops, filmy.