Beside the water,

torch-lit in wide places,

the muddy track fades

and ash and oak are ragged

paper props,

before, beside, behind.


The thaw bleeds out

over marsh and moor,

swept away back east

with lines of fields


and played out.


My own earth is in the box


the heart smokes

and is painted on the floor,

where dogs rush to me and breathe

my blood, lick my skin,

now cold as leaves.


◄ Short Film

Story ►


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David Blake

Sat 13th Jan 2018 21:17

Thanks Ray!

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Wed 10th Jan 2018 20:19

Rather disturbing and compelling David; I like it a lot. There's a sense of ritual I feel, and unearthliness.


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