Wednesday, 25 July 2007

Mushrooms poem

A pilgrimage of mushrooms
lined on the lawn
oldest at the front
a spongey knuckle, youngsters
behind like a trail of droppings

snapshotted going.

Wither? That's all their wisdom,
to pass from rot
to newer, better rottenness,
it's the very gulp of truth:
every mushroom a syllable

and in line, spondees.

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