OLD SHUCK  
 

 

where the cloudscape is a parade of vapour trails and blue ideas

 

where the horizon fizzes to its power lines of poplar and spire

 

where the windmills prop themselves like armless Puritan soldiers

 

where the church quivers as a bog oak heaves from the grave

 

where the ditches lure young drivers with their murky pheromones

 

where the peat shrinks from silver tracks as they press their advance

 

the black dog sits                                                                                

 

                                       first published in The Rialto

 

Old Shuck