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Rotten


Such sums trip off the page
As easily as Spurn Head
Slinking back to the sea

Zeros carpet the sea-shore
The sea is blank as paper
There is no sound of pliant waves

Land is getting heavy with the stench
One side of England tips down
The other juts like a sore tooth

Salty songs wash up the flotsam
Of miracles. None are listening
Too many paw at the sinking ground

An oboe of spring rain loses
Spears in the fallow back-yards
A man picks rocks from his toes

Someone has, someone has not
England tips the scales further
Sitting below the grey sea rots

© David Incoll 2001


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Copyright by David Incoll 2001