Oxfordshire
Walking the dog over the crunch
of fishbone fields; it's darker
than it should be for 5 p.m.
The trees are fingers from buried hands,
uncurling, twitching –
they'll be dead by Christmas.
I was just a kiwi boy with a drinking problem
when you first brought me here, driving us
down the coal back roads.
We live in a thatched house.
At night, the spiders yoyo from the rafters –
whisper secrets into the dog's ear.
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