Wednesday, 17 December 2014

A Patch Of Garden

I set out a boundary
using sticks
and string
and stones.

The light dims.

A dream of blades,
the sound of a motor.
Belongs to a red rotavator
pushed by a strong armed man
sweating in a string vest.

I pull back the morning curtain.
Let what’s left of the night out of the room.

My patch of garden is gone.



Morlock Oil

Morlock Oil
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The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
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