Andrew Hunter

A957, The Slug Road

What apart from pylons does
This broad November field contain?
A puddle of flooding at the corner?
Isolated weeds, standing better than
Dead appearing horses in jackets,
Hung like ungame meat on the cusp of the day?

What apart from the gauze horizon round
Does the mud and stone and boulder hold?
A pig frame seems stopped at the top
Of the low rise at the back, and a ripple
Of little brown birds from here appears
To shake out the soil’s surface as a blanket,
Shaken to stir the pig back into grubbing life – what

Except the crooked dry holes that cobble
The ragged stanes of this bone dyke surround together – what
Apart from the little dark absences people
Neglected corners and dull eye sockets – what
Can the tiny wings of a twirling flight of starlings lift,
Can the heave of a great heron’s barn door wings pick

Up and carry away from such a place as this?
This end of year midden, this
Too late in the day light that
Only truly shows the animalistic,
The pagan north wind,
The cold

Blind

Eye.

Copyright © Andrew Hunter 2018

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About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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