Poetry

Furrowed Brow

They have trumpets for noses and their hind legs are crawling

with ticks and leeches and all manner of creepy-crawlies

that make piglets scream in the night,

underneath ribbons of stars and gaseous entities

that humble and mystify in equal measure.

The sun is diced by the trees and makes golden tiger stripes

across the field. Clouds look holy against a blue backdrop,

their shadows falling across the landscape like ink in milk.

Tropical atmosphere hazes over my head.

Sliced teeth glitter in time with the

obscene pulsing of the insides of my cheeks.

Birds paw at their beaks, eyes rolling - 

dogs whip their snouts from side to side,

scratching at the dusty ground. 

Ben Taylor