The Geography of Myself

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com Myself has migrated, leaving hints of itself, in old towns and locations, where it used to be. In the dirt floor of a sandstone cave, in the soil of a grandfather’s vegetable garden, in the cracks of a concrete driveway, in the drains of a tarmacked road, and in the corners…

Plucked

Flat roofed garages, expanding up, over and beyond; consuming abandoned cars and tarmacked roads; foundations dug deep, where roots should burrow. Vast seas of greyness, housing nothing of use; no householder steps over concrete slabs of pavements; rivers dividing breath from the abandoned depths of simple storage solutions. Godly hand reaches down from blue sky…

Fried in July

The Lynford Stag in July 2018 Spilling forth from Breckland stag, Soldiers swinging, swords of fire, Shouting praises for promised lands. Crunching forth o’er sundried straw, Crackles burning, soles all sore, Citing crazes for conquered lands. Falling forth from sun-singed lips, Flowers frying, at devil’s door Firing curses for shrivelled lands. Deserted. Sands. Copyright owned…