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///
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