Size / / /

for Sovay

He is not a lord like Milord Byron;

None of us is beneath his notice.

He sits in bushes and spies on us.

When the moment is right we go into his sack.

He empties that sack in a dreary garden

Where souls are planted in long straight rows,

Sending up leaves as thick as your hand

And a stalk with clusters of shiny, black fruit.




Tony Grist (http://poliphilo.livejournal.com) was born in London and lives in Oldham, England, on the edge of the Pennine hills. He keeps rabbits and likes to take photographs of churches.
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