Beyond this I hear the cry of cows, the smell
the feel of their skin moulding my awkward repose.
Beyond this my cup is only ever half empty
in a world where size is no issue.
Beyond this line of poplar (or is it pine) lie my
yesterdays, those cold meaningless tomorrows.
Beyond this I’m just swallowed by the book
my brittle immortal wishes dashed
by the absence of my name
on the crisp yellowing leaves. And
beyond all this my sojourn on rock seven is
edged by a forgetting black, plucked gently
by wall to wall pain.
© copyright David Barker 2014
Great photography by Joel Robinson