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
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login
details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are already a member and have not received your login details, please email us,
including your name and address, and we will supply you with details of how to access the archived material.
If you are not a member and would like to enjoy the growing online archive of Stand Magazine
, containing poems, articles, prose and reviews,
why not subscribe
to the website today?