Thursday, March 11, 2010

Drowning In Co. Down by Robin Robertson

This place can't hold enough rain.
The land rots houses just to
get them out of the way, get closer
to the heavy sky.
People drink all day if they can,
the water-table their only gravity.

If they drift away they come back
thirsty, missing the pints, that
loose decay of light;
scuttling their ships
in the usual harbours, growing old
watching the water rise,

their options narrowing
to this country town,
this bar, these optics,
a whiskey glass,
the softened mouth
of this swollen ground.

from Swithering

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