Poetry that collects what memory leaves behind

Through streets that confine

twist distort.

Where heat burns up

And days are bleak.

But nights are

endless. And each

are silent

You arrived

with your lanterns

gifted this piece

of abandonment

The long hill took us here 

passed the stone-jammed wall 

the bleating of worried sheep

displaced like waves at the prow

It’s so wet here the sheep

are ringing out their fleeces

A ‘found’ poem, from an article “Statues are of Dead Blokes”, The Guardian 2024.