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Run Of The Mill

 


Seeds of promise,
threshed of husk and pocket polished,
fertility’s time missed in the daily rush;
pressed into powder in chiselled slots,
forsaken and sacked and eaten
in chicken and mayo’ sandwiches,
Danish pastries and pasta
blooded with tomato sauce.

On distant mound she stands
crinolined and wide sleeved,
siren in the wind.
Bring her your youthful ambitions
your summer’s dreams,
to be ground on the stones
of her breasts.

Nothing will spring when warm rains come
nor golden children ripple in the sizzle of the sun,
the score of seed that breaks from one beginning
will never grow to fill the field …
she crushes them to dust.

 

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