Poetry Blog by Ann Foxglove (spooky reservoirs)
The reservoir at Drift.
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.
Saturday 10th September 2011 9:28 am
spooky reservoirs (Remove)
- 2011 (1)
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