Duck
Lane
by
Paul Stevens
Trees were earth
nerves fingering
numb
into the cold
sky, where ravens
glided, swarmed
around clotted
nests, as evening
solidified.
Down Duck Lane,
we walked between
neat blackberry
hedgerows
butchered square
to grid the land,
loam fields away
left and right,
spread thick like
black
butter; and running
beside the lane,
the ditch
green with rank
run-off. Hefty
cows
stared
amiably out from
the byres; black-faced
lambs
and sheep in the
sheep-sheds raised
their evensong
plain to the sky,
their voices ascending
rich
through the poignant,
heavy incense
of manure
to
fertilise heaven.
Down Duck Lane
the mallards
splashed in algae
pond and ditch,
shook feathers,
toddled and hopped,
wielding awkward
wings
upon the stiff
mist, lifted clumsily,
were gone
to
climb the shivering
air to wooded
copse,
beating on up
to the low, frozen
clouds.
©
2007 by Paul Stevens
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