Gorse Mites

A new poem by Matt Howard.

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Look at this furze in December, still bursting
its own spinous boundary. Here,
where everything is dead-bracken-brown,
where low heath sweeps to reedbed, saltmarsh
then sea. And of all the ways to dream
some place in the world, on this trail
where the wind isn’t up to much,
such clotted red blooms
under their self-spun billowy tent,
dew-sagged, dampening gorse-gold
with this gorgeous hoary damage.

Matt Howard lives in Norwich, where he works for the RSPB. His debut pamphlet, “The Organ Box”, was published by Eyewear

This article first appeared in the 07 December 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Christmas special