This poem is taken from PN Review 46, Volume 12 Number 2, November - December 1985.
Four PoemsTHE HAWTHORN IN TRENT VALE
After fifty years, the hawthorn hedge
That ran through the new estate
Still divides the garden ends, resists
With wounds to wrist and elbow every move
To fell it or constrain. This ghost
From a farm now gone, remains to haunt
And prick the sleep of gardeners dreaming ill
Of the one unaccommodating dendrophil
Who has tenderly let his portion swell into tree entire,
Green fire and blossom fed
From the darkness under bed and masonry.
THE HOARD
I had a cousin - no blood relation -
who was a cat burglar: at evening
setting out for his vocation, he wore pumps
...
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