Saturday, 28 November 2009

Sky Bone

November flaps like old grey underclothes.
Ratty grass, blown shrubs. Garden broken
at the arse end of the year.
Packing my life up, kicking off
unwanted passengers. I won't see
another summer here.

No matter: the kids are grown,
the young man who came here gone.
Up the muddy lane rooks circle a bare oak
like vultures round a sky bone.

c. Marc Woodward

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