Abutting mowed cricket zones at Chelsworth
below The Boulevard rests a wetland ovalsworth
of Moses minders. Busbies on stalks, turds on sticks,
Grand-father clock gongs. Dryads dart between reeds,
landing on their spikelets, causing them to dip.
Dry to tongue, raspy-razored, even when wet.
Plucked bulrushes should sound a swampy bass-thunk
but sway instead, nodding noiselessly in Ivanhoe breeze.
Gather up these silent skittles into your arms.
There is no bull about bulrushes, even when provoked.
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