Poetry Daily: http://www.poems.com/


Breac the brock
laid broken-backed
by the side of the road,
white & black
pattern stitched
& unstitched,

unpacked, unpicked.
My Alan Breck,
dashing Jacobite
gone hither & yon
at his master's call
& beck: towering

broch reduced
to a brick of a thing;
there when I drive
to work & when
I drive back, dead
weight tipped

like so much bruck.
The Celts fancied
the god Apollo
a burrowing brock:
the healer god,
great sea badger—

removing which
hard-shoulder bric-
a-brac the council
call 'uplifting'
work, but oh
the ache

as sessions of winter
& spring snow
come and go
with still no curtain
of soil drawn over
poor brock's back.

David Wheatley

The President of Planet Earth
Wake Forest University Press

To view this poem online, visit the Poetry Daily archive at http://www.poems.com/archive.php
View a large-print version of this poem