Under wisteria, Valley Farm

Lombardy poplars held magnet to the sky
the slow horizon a repast of moon
to lick the salt bone of stars
my hand bleeding from an oxide barb

a fortune told by every runnel

catch at them as they mind
the fat house cow kicking out
against the pollard grip of entrapment
cold lambs asleep by the wood box fire

mothers calling gunnery under the veranda

tethered by mid creamy clusters
our lives as steadfast as marble
coiled to place by that ropey dock
holding mauve as dreams faded

to brittle headstones of fool’s gold