Small boys sell silver bullets
at the road side, for emergency
use only. In the Land of the Free
clockwork sheep graze sleepless fields.
Do they dream of a lambing
snow tumbling from neon skies?
Do they recall punch-drunk
poppies beyond the electric fence?
The mocking bird twitters
from his gilded tower. Syncopated
rhythms pump black gold. Blood
moons rise. Hunters summon the blue
-eyed to the door. She drives north
as a skein of geese flies the other way.
The Purple Hermit 
A lot of meaning in this one, Nikita, for reading a number of times. For me, it is a stark but honest view of the world, with its sharp divisions, with a dash of Philip K Dick. In my fantasies since childhood, the North Pole has always been the last resort home of magic.
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Hi Steve, thanks for your comment. Yes there’s always been an attraction to the concept of ‘north’ for me. I’ve kept on moving to more northerly locations all my life and now as far as I can go in the UK without getting wet. This poem began from the romantic phrase ‘lambing snow’ my crofter friend once mentioned and then definitely influenced by Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep.
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🙂 De nada, Nikita. Go PKD.
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