woodlands

Walk Under

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I do not think enough
[but what do I know?]
Do not urge to things
Time is an urn set to
boil / I have elevated
my unaware body up
& down to my stomp …/

Two Treehouses

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On my circular dog walk
there is a tidy treehouse
with no way to climb up

It is likely to be reached
by a foot-propped ladder
lent by someone’s parent
…/

Birch Polypore

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Scores of lady’s gloves reach
out on this chain sawn patch
whilst less urgent saplings
have slower ambitions
…/

The Lungs of God

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I stand under this vault
of our common church –
off-centre on this sea-girt isle …/

Inside My Lover

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I am entertained inside her lento lungs –
travelling alone and partly dusk-blind –
within her low suck of cooling breath …/

The Blinded

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The olfactory hit kicks in –
smelling at a filed return
of youthful tree climbing –
of guns-made-from-sticks …/

This Parish

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We stick to the leaf-kicked route –
a parting of the dry sea of leaves
cleared by dog-following boots …/