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Robin Fulton
Back Door


Victorian back-alley — bricked up
and boxed in, one little box per house.
Into each brick box

minster bells now and then pack echoes
but they spill out unruly as fish.
Now and then a black-

bird stops by, picks twelve ochre berries.
Today a gale from The German Bight
has scattered big gloves

from horse-chestnuts. Even in the dark
hectic low clouds won't give up chasing
deadlines they can't keep.

An ambulance siren zigzags past
trying to stitch together edges
unlikely to hold.

Robin Fulton    09.03.2008      
Grenzflug. Ausgewählte Gedichte. Edition Rugerup 2007

Robin Fulton