Tor

Having had a marvellous time in Scotland (just before the operation) I wanted to come home and write lots of bucolic poetry about the wonderful scenery I had witnessed. This morning, I decided I wanted to write about cows. Then the drugs kicked in and it became about some sort of fuzzy post apocalyptic hellcow that had been beaten to death by a large hardback volume of e e cummings poetry. File under "experimental" Sigh...

Tor

deep                  blue              night           oily

                      inkofindia in... flesh


             fenceandgranite

no        obstacle    to whip


            crack---------------------tails and (neck


brace    shakes…)      comes



and goes        … the grass


                     watched by        the     ~ then


         and there~      from crow

crowned lode       to blurred



                         ///horizon///