The Hare

At the top of the oldest hill in England
Is a single black street lamp
Its glass coffin casts out a faint orange heart
Holding the memory of a child that never was
Waiting for the end of the world
And across the valley a ghost watches it glowing in and out
Smoking a sodden roll-up
In the morning a hare flees
Across the dew soaked rows of green chard
Startled by no one

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