Not there, nearly This cream blackthorn warm of morning is the hour to be patching the cattle trailer with squint squares of corrugated tin and new rivets. The air is lamb-bleat soft. Away up the lane go steady hoofbeats, clip of iron to stone, the horse-pace laid in layers over the land. A tawny owl flies in daylight, has the wrong century. Wings … Continue reading Three poems by Jean Atkin