The hotel garden,

where the man hocks the moon

from the back of his throat,

below a dying yew sending out

final needles from its pollarded elbows.




Brockenhurst.





The boredom of the night field,

ponies tasting the cricket green,

wet between their teeth,

the dew brightens their goofy enamel.





For us: the big bat darkness

of oak woodland,

lichens ogling from tiny

ovals of eyes –





the air here is clean.

 











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