Down the Green Barrel of a Daffodil
Staring down the green barrel of a daffodil
It's spring and this hillside
I smell the soft dark earth rising. The moist
by animals, the tramping of people
faxed straight from Calcutta
Who's plucking out the eyes of Gaza now?
A man hands out religious leaflets on politics
don't muck about with your daughters/
don't publicly play with your balls.
He rides his hog up the hill
Sundays are definitely for stretching necks
peaceful addictions, for amongst these
the ghetto-blasting streets, the garden din
I walk with a girl picking moments
is occupied by someone other than myself –
I grasp at chunks of morning stillness.
|© Copyright 2008 Iain Britton & Trout.|
|This issue of Trout is sponsored in part by UNESCO.|