7PM
eating from a bag of chips
in a hillside graveyard
7pm
the dirt piled under the turf
creeps
up
the
ivy held walls
theres crumble cracks here
in turrets of pointed cement
and green has collected
in the flakes
in the corners
of the iron gates
their seams thick and rounded
with a hundred weatherproof coats
and i find a shallow step
to sit on
to stretch on
awkward like i fell there
in the 1898 & 1924
headstone shadows
of
a
vacant church halls
yellow window squares
SECRET
the high street is spread
like a map
below me
and i feel like a secret
up high
eating alone
on ground fat
with the dead
FOXES
and i feel like
an invisible feeder
a retired predator
separate forever
from the hatchback turnover
and i feel like this
to the baby wails
that night foxes cry
like angels who fell
and cannot climb home
LANDFILL
theyre somewhere off away behind me
on landfill that rolls
under grass like felt
like muscles under cotton
off
into
the scrappy marsh of quicksands
and
twisting creeks of stranded boats
sat unnatural and stationary
the colour of allotment sheds
and dotted like beacons
are teenagers used up
dirt bike
skeletons
essex salt marsh from the air by terry whittaker 2020/vision/rex
