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Sport 18: Autumn 1997

Spindrift Sunday

page 15

Spindrift Sunday

There are, of course, the children
as rowdy as dwarves,
a beloved wife whose hair
smells of graphite and sebum.

But you leave the sodden lawn
and burdened hollyhocks
to drive into the country.
You know a man who butchers cars
in a disused abattoir.

Poplars. Idle signals. Silent bells.
Leaving is like arriving.
The town ends in dandelions and silos;
the rain drifts in like seed.