
Stockades
Fur on the fence, wired and
crumbling; the leaves and
twigs come reaching through.
Cycle tracks slither, cutting
the mud where my own feet
slip and I’m raging at the
lack of support. Spurs mark
the ground where old boots
stamped and sent sparks,
dampened by the thick
darkness, into the foliage.
A bird caws and buckles
under the weight of its
wide wings: one flap and
it’s gone as I cut my fingers
on the leering thorns.
#365DaysOfPoetry