Small and fleeting, hidden away down leafy lanes, poetry was spoken to a few rather than many, or it starred briefly in a crowd before moving on. But I like to think some of it will linger. A lot of poetry books left the shelves and I imagine the poems now, still flying around someone between Norton Malreward and Chew Magna, going at dusk up Gibbet Lane and crossing Pagan Hill to find the stones at Stanton Drew. Words pattering like rain in the leaves.
Rose Flint
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A short extract from The Mobile Poet. See more of Rose's poetry at - http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk/places/mob1.htm#Top
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