Sunday, 5 August 2018

the games foot

the words afoot

in an instant it has sent the 
hare of a poem, running in my mind;
and i raise the larks in startling, 
the bees in spelter yellow,
as i crash across the heather. ch, ch ...
chase it! chase it! to the end of gasping,
but
i never see it stroll home to its lay. where,
ears back, agouti it is hidden, with ignition eyes;
and there, through the days it lays.   
so, my dear reader, tread carefully 
as you stride across my words,
my tussocked lines, this grass sea of pages;
for here, somewhere, a hare doth lie!

and there he goes .......

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