Friday, 2 April 2010

the burryman (for dan gorman)



Moist and scratchy, he slurred,
when I asked him how it felt to
be paraded in a velcro of green
to that Tesco they hung the witch outside.

In the cul-de-sac he was lost
and addled and done
for. Summer had erupted.
I wanted to bring him home.

I thought of his heart swaddled
like a ticking clock beneath
his burrs, bells wadded in gauze.

We would ride him to town
on a penny farthing. Ride him and we would
roll around, like a tumbleweed.
Moist and scratchy.

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