I’ve stood upon the meridian,
a cleaved coat hanger in each hand,
Avebury stones ringing sacrificial
furs on which I’d wear and sleep.
With each step, the invisible
enters, pushing my metal
half wide open. What happened
in this circle? A wedding with flowers?
A sacrifice of candles? A feast
amid the famine? Nothing
grows here except chicanery.
Later — I nurse a beer in the shadow
of a singing castle. The bartender
asks if I want a traditional English
breakfast. Who can say no to the
white and black pudding?
I eat quietly in the pub as empty
as that peated field, where the
cave paintings read “hold hands”
on the green bathroom stall door.
© Trapper Markelz 2021
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