Monday, 29 May 2017

Nether Stowey



The finches of the land stood sentinel
to grazing flocks of Suffolk Black Faced sheep.
They drove, top down, her hair tied back and capped,
past crumpled meadows strewn like lover's sheets.


They never kissed or held each other's hands,
he didn't shake and she forgot her ills,
instead they wound through undulating lands,
and headed north to hike the Quantock hills.

At Coleridge's house they pondered where
he kept his laudanum; sat at his desk;
strolled knowing Sam and William once walked there.
A perfect day. The doctors ordered rest.



First published at Atrium Poetry

https://atriumpoetry.com/2017/05/12/nether-stowey-marc-woodward/

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