3 July 2013 // poetry

A poem by Will Burns.

Remembering there is
provenance to the curved
ditch that runs below the trees

at the foot of the hill.
Something about when
and why it was made.

A name, however dimly offered.
He can see it from here,
from his back window.

He understands this place
like a painter would. Thinks
what are the broad bands of hundreds

of shades of green? Of information?
What are the pylons or high speeds
through the tamed and thewy earth?

He watches it rain after dinner.
Tired, he sits and picks bits
from between his teeth.

And he watches it rain
all the next day too, sitting
in his cousin’s motor spares shop.

Or standing on the forecourt,
cleaning his blackened nails
right back to the quick

Will Burns.

Will will be reading his poems on the Caught by the River & Faber Social curated Estuary stage at Festival Number 6, 13-15 September.

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