In the wooded clearing,
the train guard stood a sky-wise glare.
An over-qualified journalist joined at the pit's end.
The opposite farmer looked up for once.
They spoke, she translated, they waited.
I'll miss that - a nuevo-nod to a jaded hill,
I'll miss that - a crow-wink to a Balkan murder-song,
I'll miss that - a throw-up to a strewn lamb at
adults’ height ‘neath polished calves' leather,
Swiss Army ’tween its teeth - was that a smile?
It was never yours anyway - a body prod with a
feller's birch.
As the meteor did it's slow job wrecking the natural
over the native, they stood dusk for the incoming.
A lynx blew a plastic whistle.
A woodpecker gave a last .-- / - / .. -.
A vehicle for change came stuck at the border.
A fine was never issued.
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