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The folks who live on the hill<\/strong><\/p>\n Greenfinch flock between you and the sun Later, smeared with the stage blood of bramble, Like a claw, you have grappled this spot, this end. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Ben Verinder<\/strong> lives in rural Hertfordshire and is the director of a reputation research agency. He studies creative writing at London’s City Lit and his poetry focuses on mythologies and loss. His biography of the writer and adventurer Mary Burkett was published in 2008.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The folks who live on the hill Greenfinch flock between you and the sun turning east west east again, light through a bee\u2019s wing. Folds of lily-fat smother the pond and the garlic\u2019s big as apples. The greenhouse sweats tomato beads. Picnic blanket fields, frayed at the cliff edges, throw up […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-13668","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13668","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13668"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13668\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13669,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13668\/revisions\/13669"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13668"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13668"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13668"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nturning east west east again, light through a bee\u2019s wing.
\nFolds of lily-fat smother the pond and the garlic\u2019s big as apples.
\nThe greenhouse sweats tomato beads.
\nPicnic blanket fields, frayed at the cliff edges,
\nthrow up a dust of gulls. The sea is made from herring scales
\nand the afternoon\u2019s a sound of flies.<\/p>\n
\nwe boil their sugary burstings, take a satisfying knife to the pear
\nwhile the shadows from the orchard stand like dolmens in the kitchen.
\nWind reminds the hawthorn of its inclination, crucifies crows
\nand snatches the desperate message of smoke from chimney stacks.
\nYou watch the flush poetry of fire pluck shamrocks of wet paw
\nfrom granite, swat the lazy insects of ash.<\/p>\n
\nThere is nowhere to go between the Atlantic –
\nbarbarian, berserk, a ragged legion endlessly falling on itself –
\nand Cold Fell. Guardhouse, watchtower fell
\nwith its Pillar, Gable, Pike.<\/p>\n