Gary Allen
Decay
This gravel path, unreal and white
lies too straight between the bog,
the drainage ditch, the thickly planted pines:
you would have heard them play on one another -
like ball-bearings in a sock.
No one lives up here now,
stone walls falling slowly in upon themselves,
like headstones in an old graveyard
in Brooklyn or Quincy -
or a housing estate in Twinbrook.
And water - dripping through the forest
seeping up to fill footprints,
runned off into Quolie Reservoir
to fill this bath below.
Everything rots on the highland -
primeval wood, sheep carcass, twists of rope.
Page(s) 30
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- Rialto, The
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- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
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