Crossing The Bog Of Allan

The road across
undulates in a time
line of pits and pots
rising and slipping
like an unseen storm.

Seasick in the hull
of our ship of fools
we sail on
flattening the earth
brown and bursting
with bodies
spliced with jam and decay.

Who was this ancient man
this giant of a dandy
of beaten bronze
whose manicurist knew him well.

Had he dishonoured the king’s wife
pulling her under his blanket
with hands as soft as bog cotton
feeding her buttermilk and cereal.

And when they stabbed him
threaded his arms with twisted hazel
sliced his nipples on the boundary
did he remember her smell.

by Carol Boland

Comments (1)

welcome Carol Martin