Eleven of Nine

A stiff November morning

washes my face with its damp flannel breath,

and hangs like Monday’s washing,

broad damp blankets that we were scolded

for running through as children,

but alas no Persilled perfume today,

a metallic leaden nostril-stinging taint,

everything stinks, the paths, fences, roofs

all smell of a grey rancid meaty moisture.

Over the lank sodden meadow,

obese owners, walk obese dogs,

plodding their well-worn clockwork routes

in well-worn shapeless clothing, before

stepping particularly

like careful fat hens

between the uncut tussocks, searching

as if the offer of sustenance were promised.

Three sturdy beeches having watched each season

four generations past,

fold their rustling coats and doze

through this vaporous mire.

Published by grahamrsherwood