The Modern Poet
feels obligated to
be brushed,
jumps bail,
takes mental residence
elsewhere,
an isolated shack
deep down
some cold
autistic Trail.
With unctuousness
reserved for those
with cash or clout,
conceit’s inbred,
a shaman-like
remorseless
Mutt ‘n’ Jeff,
celebrity,
the thread.
The Wild Boar Inn
Long holiday, late afternoon,
down sunken country lanes, three lads
aged nine a good two miles from home,
you dump your bikes beside the pool,
explore the feeder dammed to fuel
three mills below, one modernised,
two ruins, check out behind the inn,
a cobbled yard, old outbuilding,
crates, barrels, stairs, dust everywhere,
a yawning trapdoor’s grainy dark,
rats conjured, slightest stir beyond.
The landlord hangs himself here years
ago, high crime, a mortal sin,
wife gone for good. A creaking from
above, the gently-swaying rope’s
dead weight slow twists inside your head
this way and that. You spook for fun,
retrieve your wheels, don’t dare look back.
Peter Branson
Bindweed Magazine 