Nature Poems

	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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