The Journey to Pickled Mountain.

You are worn, dear Peter

And pained like the cries upon a battlefield

Where do they go? Growing intense – a mechanism under skin that twists in coiled movement 

I know the hurt.

Clock chimes 

Three, then six, then nine

Twelve 

Silent striking, inviting, I hear it calling 

Here come’th the hour

But you will not die today, dear Peter

Sweet Peter

You will not die today.