Within and Without
Snared leverets lie, as neighbours,
angled on the quarter hour;
the hindmost outstretched tendons point
to the fact it's half past three.
I have followed the sun up the hill
to where the barrows softly rise,
more natural than the turning wheat.
And from this highest vantage, now
appears painted on the lower sky, the sea.
And all around me sings of birds,
and, all brightness rises from the earth.
And over, under, piled below
sleeps a king from long ago.
I cross this out: and pull hard on my roll up.
My blister is hurting more.
I slug brandy,
swallow a couple of paracetamol:
hope the pathologist has the sense to check my feet:
take note of the Ordinance Survey map, my pack;
and not assume suicide.
There should be a poem in these rabbits.
The bloodied necklaces, their heads together,
their bodies butted out.
But there is not.
There is a blister, needing three miles of nursing,
and a bloodied sock that may not fit
the dusty, gaping boot.