Sunday, 27 January 2013


they promised us "no rain" but
here we are
at the aptly named Water Lane
where the trees, be-whiskered of finger,
stroke their leaf free, would be, chins
bemused by roots once dry and thin now
fat and drunk

so let’s begin

we passed a fox
we passed a hound
but then a somewhat grisly mound
mechanically rendered
and from that point south our path
seemed lined with bobbing, robbing, gizzard ripping
grey beaked strippers

the fields, boarded, tortured, gasping for air cry
but barely has their breath condensed
than heaven wrings another tide of ill concealed contempt

so there,
in the midst of urbane beds, hip hop sheds and looking up
a pair of legs that stalk the concrete raft across
the links become lagoons
where every complex, golf or god, surrenders
to the mentored runes that follow every bulletin

yet despite the wonder of all to see
we turn away
to define our own stupidity
in a round of yellow car punch

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