Peter Devonald The Underneath Deify the dead, demean the living the past holds such guilty longing. People doing bad things, don't want light to shine in darkest hidden places. The great unknown, every move is a plan sickly and deathly, the boatman is ready held together with double sided sticky-backed plastic, waterproof plasters and memories of how we once were. Wrinkles, less elasticity of skin, weakening, fierce eyes at least the rest, slowly fading, the mirror is not impressed it cowers, glowers its displeasure.