Dawn
And the raven suited night,
feathered at the edges
with the pinking guts of morning
sends from its shearing seams
a flock of cloth winged commuters
to gather at platforms,
beaks towards the yellow lights
of the Greater Abellio service
to London Liverpool street.
That wingless flight path
absorbing at stations
the black flock of overcoats,
line stitched into carriages
and speeding through the
peeling sky
Jo Dingle lives in Norfolk and so irons nothing. This leaves her plenty of time to write poems and dream about hills.