Burton-On-Trent, Sunday (1 April, 2012)

Sunday April 1, 2012 § Leave a comment

Tonight there is the smell of
hops
on the air. A

yeasty sort of self-reliance
and defiance, likely

as unreliable as it is
welcome, game

and foolhardy, the greater selfishness
is deferred
in
the long sight of

memory. The town has crowned
its sons with
an abundance
of

resignation, its secret life relieved,
temporarily. The
braggadocio
of birds. And now slowly
it grows dark.

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