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Erect in the sward
Like Wells’s war-world Tripods,
Feasting on oil-hot sun,
Settlers on lank legs,
Ragwort – staggerwort –
Whiffs like dung.
Yellow
as plates of yolk
Its flowers, its leavesLike curly kale;
And all July the wold
It roves – its burnt-gold troves
A swagman’s trawl.
Each
flower’s a thirteen petal
Womb
coddling swagsOf yolky sacs;
But like jakes-dregs
It shakes scour-gut aches
Through uncareful cattle.
Flowering done, what’s left
Is scranched bran in a cuff
Of rusty petals; a swart
Stink in a puff –
Tart – of mare’s fart
In the noon heat adrift.
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©
July 2014