Yarn

Grandfather of the hedgerows humble

shouldered

sensing

a fat lady singing when the cows come

home again: collection

of mortality

the yard winging yet down

upon strangers

a valley or three in the thighs of the land

soil-stepping

sweet fingertips

he tastes a heel of honeysuckle, as she hoovers the hall

inside-out yearning

heartless famine of floored

wonder

‘do you berate me, madwoman’

a lake abreast replies

‘I am the way; I am the truth

and yet I lie darkly by a thrush corruption’

fathom for five

or

the favoured side?

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