pitch
desolate windy waste
it coming in up the valley
from sun going down place
ablaze and bloody
streaks reaching out to us
on the green corner
the chances pitch
amid litter of broken plastic
exposed entrails dark
shadow of hedgerow
what has become unrecognisable
with each throw of the dice
further up the road more trouble
so we count ourselves
fortunate to stand thus
No comments:
Post a Comment