Been There


While they burst in, beating snow from their furs,
their trick moustaches pearling, the girlish driver
hid the Lagonda before he broke the ice

to drink from the horse-trough. Since when no creature,
man nor beast, has dared attempt that seething brew,
leach as it may into the water table.

Burying his cap, I turned back to the inn --
all of a mucksweat now -- to cast my vote:
rather than spill their blood we'd share their genes.


One signpost signals another, the merest
fingerboard; and nothing passes here for days
except the days. Ignore the guidebook, it's

not true our streams run backwards, nor yet uphill.
Our local knack is cubing a foul bouillon
from knackered livestock. That and a blue-veined cheese
which, some nights, will take the roof of your mouth off.




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