Sunday, 14 November 2021

The Clearing

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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