to Geoffrey Hill
What fields became: you, sneck-blasted cover-boy for New Age prospects; some raspberries, wormy both to touch & taste; a lone horse cropping grass from gorse. I can't rework a photograph the mind pawns, forwards past this powder keg of Pentland storms. Railpath, not much used because it terminates here, at the bypass, a traffic roundabout. Rotary, we call them back at home where they are rare & vaguely Communist. They rely on man's goodwill to man. Surely this amuses you, in Boston 's one-way purgatory of cod & sleet. Hogweed, white dead-nettle, runoff plugged with waste or worse; rank betony. Love amerces love, & all proper cares of love's inflection. Earth remands: some walls of rubble-stone. A different resurrection.
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|Date:||Mar 22, 2013|
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