by Ben Brooks
We start to notice
That there is concrete where there should be grass.
You ask where the cave has gone.
I say it died
But really it has been choked with cement,
Health and safety—
Whilst throttling trees
And slaughtering ewes.
We both try to stand up straight
But this is worse than
Seasonal affective disorder.
In winter we do not notice that buildings are piled on
In spring we cannot help but notice.
Bear says walk.
This morning is bright,
Too bright to be spent exploring horrors from the past.
There is still a square room on the farm
With a slim noose
And piles of feathers