Ann Foxglove
drift reservoir
by Ann Foxglove
It is evening.
Deserted picnic benches, fishing signs.
Tension – depths of dark water,
a high retaining wall.
I walk along the parapet.
I look down.
I look across.
On the far shore a dead swan lies
breast blown, rib cage exposed,
feet blackwebbed leather,
a far scattering of feathers.
Hurriedly I walk back across the parapet
where my friends w...
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Saturday 10th September 2011 9:28 am
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