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
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.