Just a small sinkhole by John Porter

in an unmapped village

they worked round it

made no calls, no fuss,

inch by inch it crept till

cows tumbled mid chew

people just putting the kettle on

then gone with house,

bedridden uncles, caged birds,

into the void.

It spread and consumed

grey towns

where beige takeaways

looked gratefully to the abyss,

second level cities submitted

at sea it ate retirement cruises.

We knew it was near

but still worked, sent invoices, bought fruit,

did not mention the hole,

at the end allowed our eyes to meet,

held hands, fell in.

---

After living in a Moscow and London John Porter is now in Gloucestershire. He has degrees in Russian and Law and when not juggling his two small sons he writes poems, usually on trains. His work has appeared in magazines including The Stinging Fly, Prole, Marble, Streetcake and Strix.

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