Field Party

The sweet trace of fodderon the breeze, the acidof spilled cider. Occasional carstearing up the air, like the invitesnone of us had received.I don’t even remember a house.What signal set us heading outto ooze like summer starlingsfeeding on insects in the sky? Read more at The Poetry Village

The Monks

The river is high these early hours, a fine mist reminding us of the Ghost. Someone coughs inside a distant cell, someone chants matins, somewherea renegade brother brews beer.Reports of plague illuminate our books,while the sandstone walls weep like open wounds. Young friars play football amongst bean canesand wild garlic, daydream of sunon white fences, earthly mores.  Read more on Allegro … Continue reading The Monks