Wintertime Walk
Said we’d make a walk into the Kentish countryside
Place called Slutshole you laughed good pub at the end
Sub-zero brought a flask forgot sensible shoes
Skirting bridleway mud in new Vans can’t call them new anymore
Divert to a watchtower duck bend balance rhododendrons asphyxiate the path
This ruin's where traders checked the estuary for ships [leaf litter no sound here]
Out of the forest (England’s oldest you say) a forgotten orchard
Apples frozen to branches / frosted dents in the grass catch shadows
Waves of waxwings chirp overhead (coming from cold central Europe you say
– could be waxwings too fast to identify maybe here for the fruit)
In the pub too numb fingers pick at peanuts / locals look
You in your boots beaming [the only sound a rattling heater]
Originally published by Selcouth Station Press, 2021
This poems is included in the webzine Selcouth Station #3 which is available to buy here until December 2022
©James Bruce May 2021
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