Peter Branson – 2 poems 

The Modern Poet

 

 

feels obligated to

be brushed,

jumps bail,

takes mental residence

elsewhere,

an isolated shack

deep down

some cold

autistic Trail. 

 

With unctuousness

reserved for those

with cash or clout,

conceit’s inbred,

a shaman-like

remorseless

Mutt ‘n’ Jeff,

celebrity,

the thread.

 

🍃

The Wild Boar Inn

 

Long holiday, late afternoon,

down sunken country lanes, three lads

aged nine a good two miles from home,

you dump your bikes beside the pool,

explore the feeder dammed to fuel

three mills below, one modernised,

two ruins, check out behind the inn,

a cobbled yard, old outbuilding,

crates, barrels, stairs, dust everywhere,

a yawning trapdoor’s grainy dark,

rats conjured, slightest stir beyond.

The landlord hangs himself here years

ago, high crime, a mortal sin,

wife gone for good. A creaking from

above, the gently-swaying rope’s

dead weight slow twists inside your head

this way and that. You spook for fun,

retrieve your wheels, don’t dare look back.

 

🍃

 

 Peter Branson

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