Saturday, 3 August 2013


For my part, I was drawn
to a capsule of silver
fountain pen.
A chunky pen with a golden nib.
Silver ribs on its chunky lid.
A pen like this could make you happy.

We parked in front of a supermarket.
I found a piece of paper stuffed under the driving seat.
I couldn't wait to get going, get going
with my new silver capsule pen.

I wrote in tight, constricted hand-writing.
As if the careful formulation of my writing,
the neatness of my lettering
would somehow give the content more worth.

All that remained of the original market was the old walls that surrounded the car park. Once, where the supermarket now stood, there'd been a yard where farmers set up temporary corrals with sections of galvanised gates. Built walls from hay bales. Scattered straw to make a place to exhibit their pigs and cattle. A place to set down cages. Rabbits. Chickens. My friend Nick once bought a cockerel.

A tractor whirs down the road.
It pulls a shepherd's hut on a trailer.
A turquoise shepherd's hut
made from sections of corrugated sheeting.
A wave of ivy grows and streams down the back wall.

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