Daniel Tiffany, p.4


Oundle after lime burnt
at the kiln, Oundle were a place
of other days. Whittlesea false
in borrowed rays, three miles on.

Needle threadless, gameboy of the fair confession
made upon the lea. And a bounty of two moons.
As they often leave the oaks half cut down
till the bark men come to pill them.

I looked sideways for hope & fear.
Magic perpendiculars. Chin deep,
the country chin deep in rumors of flight.
Cold frames, breeze-ways, storm doors.

Slang for the pink redoubt. For
I had imagined Oundle after lime burnt
at the kiln. Orison. Knife-and-shearlessness.
Oundle were a place of other days.

Mazed, them busk and boon, my box
of lucifers. Everything and its opposite.
A pounding harder than nature
could bear. Wets unpretending beauties.

All under the leaves, the leaves of life,
triple glazing protection for shiny folk.
Last copy changing hands. Sews nicely.
And the swinkt hedger at his supper sat.

An old white thorn full of fame,
the ox man fleured. So there.
A swallow of poppy seeds,
tint of delight.

Off the hooks, waiting to be repaired
till repairs are useless. Plowman purple
with cold, so crowded with awes that bye and bye
the fields will be dressed with nothing.