This poem is taken from Stand 219, 16(3) August - September 2018.

Jack Thacker Poem
Walmgate Stray
for Karl O’Hanlon

Loose dogs part low mist – halitosis
is what you call it. Jackdaws,
iron-clad, lay themselves like a sheet.
The long march of hedgerows
between wet centres; trampled grass
waist-deep in gold leaf. The roof
collapsed, it rained – filled with algae,
dead leaves, seepage. Everything
sinks beneath the weight of itself.
Each hoof print – once punctured
is permanent – deep as an inkwell.
A floorplan of pathways and ditches
(and at times the near horizon
rises up to your ears). Solitary
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