This poem is taken from Poetry Nation 4 Number 4, 1975.
EssexWhat do I see in it?
Three years trying to forget it
leaves me exactly still
in its cradle of smug plough.
When I sleep I fall immediately
back to its slippery rim of marsh.
With a low horizon of masts
it hedges me in, one eye continually
opened to show my root coiled in your wound.
...
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