A Field Near Ripe

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Two crows in black robes
ghost into my untrusting
edge of sight –
that miscalculated corner
of slights – of misinformation

A pair of hooded monks
float across this field
angled south
of Golden Cross –
a hectare of grass pasture

We take a triangulation
of boot-dashed footpaths
Here
a temporary centre
of a loosened ruin of bales

We follow b2 from a2
towards millennial years
of old adding ups
before
Pythagoras came to c2

Mike Bell Poetry

Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be about 85 years old and have out-gunned PD, dementia, and the end of days. Possibly. Before the floods and fires. Mike Bell is found working for money as a freelance set designer.

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