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O.T. Park: a poem

Our Lady

Our lady is in the brambles;

Wan watcher of the asphalt

As it ascends to the A-road.

Stands like a nosy neighbour

Head cocked inquiringly

As if to catch a conversation.

Her wide wake is ceaseless

Irrespective of the tumult

From the intrusive traffic

Which accompanied the

Shift from track to tarmac.

From time to time she startles

A drunk dragging his feet

Up the rise; luminous marble

Looming from the graveyard

Overwhelms his dizzy eyes.

O.T. Park lives and works in Guildford. He has had poems published in Eye Flash Poetry, The Dawntreader and The Cannon's Mouth.

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