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July 2016, vol 12 no 2

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Guy Simser

Take a country stroll, she said.

Alone in the field, he follows the drone from eye level down, down, its brain sugar-drained, its body age-weighted down, down until one inch from dank loam, there to make a brave but faint half-flutter before going to ground with a moaning unto death by his time-worn boots. Pausing, he bows his head in reverence. From a distant parish, the bells peal Vespers, that everyman’s call layering a numbness over all those with rheumy eyes and shortness of breath, all those treading their muted way toward the abyss: then comes a gift, a corporal of snow, blessed.

The Last Post
circling a snow covered plot
a dog’s wet nose