Porlock

Dark leaves are tumbling like dexterous pigeons,
twisting round curls of air,
spinning into the soak of the grass
as if starlings are falling, moist and purple,
staining the Council’s perfect green
with a black, spreading mould,
and a mouldy old crow twists on a twig,
cranking the tree, but life is failing…

Everywhere, robin songs are quelled
under purple clouds where seagulls,
distance-crumbled, all wink out;
Now, mushrooms shock like gravestones,
glinting from beneath the world,
breathing the brown sunshine in
where life has failed.

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