Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Leaving, pull sulky feet like lollipops
from the forty lochans, the forty-one skies.
Taffy they are in the rich blue
for which triptych brushes are poked under cloud.
A crowd of marsh-leaves shake their streaked tongues.

Nortlaand – more numerous than ewes,
than ganglion roads in a thousand voes.
Neither Swinister nor Eshaness nor Crying Taing
must take the brunt of my love.

No I won’t forget the gate but tie it loosely,
a ply wing
to thud my sternum when the wind is up.