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Monday 27 May 2019

At Last, It’s Time To Gasp

I walk up the hill
A different hill
With a different camera

I am not at the monastery
Though I am with
Equally devoted patrons and followers

The track is narrow, rugged
One boot print footfalls
On top of someone others

My footwear squeaks to me
I turn around
Looking, listening for a conversation

There is no five-bar gate here
On which to place the camera bag
On which to leave the camera bag

I do though sit on the style
If I had a Silk Cut (Low Tar) cigarette
I would smoke it now, in homage to one memory






















Happenstance in Heptonstall
Poems Started at Lumb Bank
Arvon 2018