Poem in Which a Nature Poet Starves to Death

The Moleskine was no help.
Nor the tatty Barbour

bought in Camden’s fusty arches
and reeking of the Great Outdoors.

Refusing gritty urban scenes
this boy had eyes for sparrowhawks,

for unkempt tors and scruffy larches,
for dells and dales of rolling green.

But now his belly rumbles,
and with iPhone out of signal,

and compass app gone up the spout,
he writes a final line before the lights go out:

Fuck you, Nature.

Jody Porter


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