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Punishment


Woman, bleed meadowsweet from your hair. Dissolve all oak's finest pollen, the coconut scent of broom, your yellow gown.


Proteins rearrange, feathers form. You are flown to peck on maggots and rotten flesh, chancing it in gutters, on verges.


Stripping The Willow


Punt through the quiet, lilied channels, your pontoon waking the morning,


fat splashes from water voles, cries of grebe and booms of muddled bitterns.


Watch for the camera eye of heron checking on your solo task,


the boat stacked high with cut stems. It's hard to leave this for the fast road home,


but last year's harvest woven into horses and new men has something of it


in the creak of bent wicker and the flick of switches when you let them go. Ka


t oks e Nae 17


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