Sunday, 3 August 2014

In and Out

In and out of sunshine, I follow the cracked path.
A gatekeeper crosses Pack Horse Bridge. It's

the sort of day when everyone smiles hello.
The Hogsmill mumbles as it takes in Bonesgate

Stream - named for the nameless victims
of the Plague - like a drinking partner at an

otherwise deserted late-night bar. As ever,
nettles stick close to the blackberries among

the singular Russian comfrey. I use my left hand
to manoeuvre round to the plumpest fruit.

Like a billows, a red admiral basking on
a bed of thistledown puffs its wings in and out.

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