By Geoff Sawers
Comes the heroine, slug-truffler
baggy shuffler in Lennon-lenses
slow rivers run to the sun, wet banks closed off
furze-hoggler, milk-suckler, apple-spiner
knives out spear-ball, leaf-snorer, tick-shitter
wind-diviner, the hedgepig whined
thrice and once, dear draenog, pug an muc
cast a silver bowlful of water on the marble slab
and brave the hail and thunder to wait
for patient bobbing miss Luned who says
don’t mind me for sayin’ it ma’am
well but he weren’t no good in the first place.
Come an’ dance wi’ me at midsummer
Geoff Sawers was born in 1966 and only diagnosed as autistic in his fifties. He struggles with all modern technology but nevertheless has new work out this year in Bookends Review, Grey Sparrow, San Pedro River Review and the Times Literary Supplement. You can follow him on Instagram @geoff.sawers
