Dave Fraundorfer

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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