Tuesday, 9 February 2016

The farmer always thought she had too many dresses.


Stunted thorns slump east.
Three red calves stand on the ridge
rumps to the west wind.

Rabbit weary grass
faints at the clump of his boots.
In the house below

she's folding dresses.
A thin surrender of smoke
waves like a torn flag.

By the time she leaves
he's sodden to his white chest
and the hearth is cold.





First published at Clear Poetry 21/1/2016
https://clearpoetry.wordpress.com/2016/01/21/marc-woodward-two-poems/

No comments:

Post a Comment