Tuesday, 11 September 2012

Dusk on Harrow Hill

The song sheet pylons throb
chords of ice and sea salt skin
plucked like dragged lip lovers.

Dusk is a harsh desert;
birds rip varicose rivers,
gullets pulse for dead fish.

A girl disappeared last June,
skipping to a silhouette
pounding earth with a gosling.

They’re burning gorse to look for her
the covered man points down
hardened men are vomiting.

Antony Owen,

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