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John Clare shifting
Folder:
Dead Poets
John Clare Shifting
Somewhere in Northamptonshire, the soil shifts— a faint rustle as if a hedgerow stirs to correct a misunderstanding.
Clare, long settled in his quiet earth, rolls half an inch to the left, muttering about the state of readers who demand rhyme the way cows demand gates.
He lifts a ghostly eyebrow at the verdict: POOR, delivered by a stranger with the subtlety of a bootprint on wet pasture.
“Flow,” he sighs, “they want flow— as if the world itself doesn’t move in fragments: sparrow flick, ditch‑water glint, dawn creeping sideways through a broken stile.”
He turns again— not in anguish, just in mild rural irritation— and settles back, letting the worms resume their honest work.
Above him, the hillside keeps breathing, unconcerned with ratings.
.
