Down the chalk track slick as soap.
Wade the long grass in the meadow,
bludgeon swinging, bag of stoats.
Rabbit in my fingers squealing,
into the grove of the gods I go.
Old gods. Half-dead and never dying.
Sucking needles, spitting berries.
Crouched like spiders. Holding hands.
The air is close as a whisper
Sam Wilson Fletcher was born in Lewisham. He studied chemistry and quantum mechanics at Oxford, geomorphology at Harvard and the GFZ, and now writes full time in Berlin. His poems have found homes in Magma, Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Learned Pig and elsewhere, including the upcoming Seren anthology, 100 Poems to Save the Planet.