where the cloudscape is a parade of vapour trails and blue ideas


where the horizon fizzes to its power lines of poplar and spire


where the windmills prop themselves like armless Puritan soldiers


where the church quivers as a bog oak heaves from the grave


where the ditches lure young drivers with their murky pheromones


where the peat shrinks from silver tracks as they press their advance


the black dog sits                                                                                


                                       first published in The Rialto


Old Shuck