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
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