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on sound
the geese I lovetheir drifting callsfiltering through the leafless treesI seek the skeinwatch it spread across the ice blue abovesee how it stretches, unfurlscollapsestoward the stubblerises and falls like a sheet in the breezenever quite settlesfolds of nervous ripples run through the flockthey’ve come so far for this?dissenters lift offcirclegather followersreturn to the heavy earthwhere →
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Eyes Opened
A flat square of greyed, corner- curled plywoodNailed to the end of a thick poleStaked into the herb bedDiced bacon, toast crumbsMorsel of old appleSeeds, pieces of nutA shard of coconut hung by stringWarm in teddy print pyjamasFace still pillow-creasedI watch them feed as I eatAutumn chill,Folded into school uniform (again)Lying on my backOn the →
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Autumnal
On fields of decapitated barley, the hollow stubble full with last night’s rain, huge straw reels stand askew; great golden wheels left out to dry in the Sun, emitting a musty warmth, while fungi forms in dewy soil on which the geese reconvene to commence their wintery discourse. These large birds’ clacking beaks break into →
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Brent Geese
. Spirals from vast skeins Settle on winter wheat Black snow from Russia . CLP 30/12/2018 →