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

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