
Suzerain
All March practising marksmanship, the plink of lead pellets against the upturned wheel barrow: plink. The target’s bruised centre, the barrow dimpled by spent pellets – shining catastrophes flat against its steel. Seen though cross hairs April is precision greens and browns, all the wind blow and flagging skies reduced to one intersection, a thin black centre. Plink. I […]
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