Above Glynde Reach

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I picked a bent path of grass treads between time’s tipped-hat stones in St. Andrew’s – Beddingham’s dry-high whispering graveyard It hasn’t absorbed any rising tidal surge or sudden winter wash – of God’s clearing-out-no-chance-flood since He-knows-when-of-last Once vagrants were listed here in this river-fashioned parish in a sub-Lewes rolled distance – 68 villains, 6...


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