sunk into the heat of eclipse
and kept there however long
signposting with crumbs as
I descend layer on layer,
grinding my teeth which each
tend towards ‘please remove’.
forward, forward, forward march
if only to get past february
and off the waterlogged rifle-range.
I can hear the tearing in two
of everyone’s purpose,
I can hear the gurgle of
a burning country being drowned.
i hopscotch these years – alternating
full application and mistiness.
but now it tastes different
and skipping ahead has its definite end.
tricked by the challenge, death in a jump,
laid irreparable from where once tilted,
wrapped grotesquely, like a gift,
in rope.
Sam Huddlestone 