David Barnes



       The Charm


The goldfinches
     scatter song on frost-furrow –

a cowbell-hymn
      thrown to field & copse,
           cast over waters –  dewpond,
                  cattle trough:                   

The Charm
    trodden in ditch,
             tramped through market-town,
     echoed in train’s heave,
                       pounding off concrete.

Passing Magi in rotting rags
      bring the Charm, like bells, like Plague bells,
            
                   to the gates of the City

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