Not for me.
Not at the top.
Not for …
Orange, glossy, gilled, miniscule.
Unwillingly lurching over, lumping back, avoiding
shiny low bars – perfect for hurdling over – and
secured by man-handled devices.
A short, snappy jolt.
head crashing out of exploding glass,
eyes bailing out, cannon-balled over into
the hooped-open mouth of a Suffolk farmer –
low-down in his high-up tractor seat, and
prodding at his molars,
stabbing at seeds, wrenching them out from tight-dark spaces
in his lower jaw.
A throaty lump.
For you …
Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian
Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.
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