Sunday, 14 November 2010

Wyre Forest

Underfoot, stone age stones
the colour of bone
and splintered from the earth,
crack and scuttle

over dirt;
a dislocation of sounds
and senses overwhelm
the superfluous,

as the wrists of trees
wave in the wind;
dismembered fingers
run through the brittle hair

of the hedges and undergrowth,
feeling for bald patches
where radiation
has irradiated

the intimated seed;
but none is found, not here,
where ochre leaves fall and sit,
more like a hat than a bandage.

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