PITMOREHILL COPSE

It is not much of a hill. A smudge of yellowy brown On the white sky, like fox shit in thin snow. But it is a Midlands hill, brought to the plain fore By the black, leafless copse veining the field. Seen from this distance, the cold thicket gapes wide Like a mouth opening to utter a muffled word Without expression. Visible breath exhaled softly From bones beginning to cool at their edge. I have…

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