WOOD
Not pylons estranged friends
Hold aloft electricity cables
Table reuses blessing
Small white graves walk along the road
Voice leads where meteor touches tooth
Sea defences made of clocks
Before acoustic cousins arrive
Loving old stories
All burnt porridge
One final telling
One carriage train slowly crossing from recto to verso
On the flooded tracks now of course my pen will not work
A knowledge of loose hair
Followed across rough seas
Story boils milk
Sweat wire wool
The woodland one week old the trees
Barely visible above ground the emphasis
—David Berridge
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previously appeared in part in Noon: A Journal of the Short Poem