Sunday, 25 March 2012

On The First Day Of (British) Summer Time…

£30 down

70 miles to run



urged by the shiny beats from the grimy patois street
through a condensing sea that
molecular bonds can’t quite complete
towards a Castle Rising
though those I see have largely fallen
and past purple scented fields of bees
until finally I stand full east on gritty strand
with drying pollyped fingers, feather fanned
escapees from the molloscular grasp
of breaker frosted bull nosed rings
while under the sun and over tide
fulmars ride Arial’s warm spirited spire
but pockets full of stones weigh me down
beneath the fractured pressage of blood blistered rocks,
the rusty witnesses to a hundred suicides

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