On Stilts Poem by Kevin Eaglesfield

On Stilts



Above the mire, the bamboo house
Stands oil-rig proud in choppy seas,
Whelps yapping, snapping at the legs,
Sunk deep and stained in old disease.

Sometimes, on the fattened wind,
I catch a filthy hint of much
That horrifies and warms and shocks,
And shudder when I want to touch.

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