Stone where crime swung on a gibbet.
as a village post it note.
Stone church entrance
embedded In three red hearts three white skulls
as a village memory jogger.
Stone, wood, metal Christs open
their wounds on crosses in three streets.
dusty ground broken glass,
fly tipped patchwork carpet oddment lines fields, two bare bonced Scramblers scream past
Two young boys help tractored farmer gather golden corn harvest
All laugh together in the field knife edged
Only Christmas days
unwrapping action man
and hot wheels bind us.
From an asphalted pit lane
beside The Barley Sheaf
we walk into scrub.
“What are you doing at school now?”
I carry the minibeast book
I bought to help us.
“Don’t think we’ll find
any Scarab Beatles, today.”
Sonja Benskin Mesher. (Response)
daily the rope grinds , killing.
in the window the vase holds one heart. village. memory.
who believes, who left the ticket as memorial? this dirty mound.
screams cut through flesh,. whose saintly face?
the thresher , the collector of word?
one seed will grow this meadow of corn.
bound with nature.
we have a different gender,
walk a different road. a back road.
I read in latin
lost the sexton
lost my memory.
no sound escapes me…….
things never work out exactly how we expect