Will Harris

Five Poems

The Icknield Way

At the grocer’s shop they were killing a pig
on the other side of the wall. Neither
the screaming nor the end of it disturbed
his cutting up of lard and the women
talking of the coronation. Tonight,
I think I hear bacon frying in a room nearby
with a noise almost as loud as the pig
made when it was stuck, but it is the rain
pouring steadily off the inn roof.



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