Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.

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Poems -

I press the sole of
my foot against
a smooth, layered stone that
is faded black and acute to
the slope of
the path.
It is smooth like the
raging river far,
far below, but its colour
is off. Ahead -
weeds, high as my
chin choke thin, bent, erratically
swaying blades of grass.
Pale insects form
merging and dispersing
clouds, their
bright blood pulsing and
leaving trails like
temporary maps in
the air leading nowhere.
I watch fascinated through
I am lost.
Tettigonias chirp in
a quick six eight.

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2023 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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