every day I pass the cyclops eye on the way to work
green shrubs set in a combe in the hill
with sadness it surveys the traffic running across its chest
we long for silence, for when birds were the only herald of day
every so often, a tractor will renew its cardigan, trim it's fringe
in winter a white shawl surrounds her head and shoulders
Today I realised her breasts rose south, Chapel Hill
--
http://www.badstep.net/
http://www.cb1poetry.org.uk/
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