Bosworth Field
Fell field
I, a child
Made your death my own
To fall,
To save you, from you
Hell man, Ive seen perfect fields
Past your dream of hills
Rope and lovely bridges
Flat canals, shored up
Fed crimson from Bosworth Field
Past the gym clothed
White thighs
And groups of land girls
Trip me with their narrow thoughts
Pause, at
St. Marys Church
Among the child graves
And rain sheds
Stride
Like a praying mother.
Smaller Empires
Left throne
Breeze in
Like a missile
Unable to give one jot
Metronome offspring
Run through
Networks of hell under us
Awake!
Will your stomach stand
Your final day?
Out of nowhere,
In the marble afternoon
24 August 2005
(Re-written 10th December 2006)
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