One Poem by Stephen Kingsnorth

Written in response to this month’s Special Challenge.


From farmyard flock to factory,
could they foresee come-chlorine dressed?
Urbane leisure faced rural work,
whose hint of curve, whose firm-set lips,
which eyes to read or shaded brim?
No tears will spill, pass aquiline,
until too late, when passion spent,
for who the beak-like nose presents?
Neat produce patch is mirror-work,
hug-clutched within olecranon
and glimpse of dress above the bird.
Is either supplicant, resigned?

Fashion followed or eschewed,
bucolic end prosperity,
is harmony repressed or cooped?
While paradigm plank formal framed,
a cleft or double for the chin,
the comb, as bobble, crowning pate,
but what is pinned stays under hat –
no blue-rinse felt beneath crush-hide?
The best coat is firm finger-held –
like some masonic signal spread
as though set square is soon to melt –
but who views whom, and what esteemed?


Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by some twenty on-line poetry sites, including Nine Muses Poetry; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines and Vita Brevis Anthology.

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