Fen - 13
A mitten on a gate but less - dropped,
ploughed around the old pigsty in the middle
was the place where no one went. To see
the remains of the door, hung at the hinge,
propped in angle, dug in the floor. Rotten
concrete pebbled with age and the attentive lime
of passing birds. With nothing to see but
a few fading scrawled words, of almost love,
for which boar fucked which sow - and when.
Both, like the roof, long eaten - now.
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