Under the Wire
Descending panting from the top
(where god is always in the lower case)
The wind bleached lichen
gives way to greener stuff.
We re-assert a modicum of breathless grace
and skirt the bog (why is such a vastness called a 'mere'?)
much as we skirt the subject
never managing to reach the nub of it.
At the bridge we part
before all our alibis expire.
In your face the rumour of a tear
and I am just a hank of wool
left fluttering on your barbed wire.
Jx
Fkx
Mon 7th Feb 2011 13:16
That image just stays with me... the wool, snagged and fluttering from that barbed wire. That brought a volume and intensity to the poem. TFS.