by Jim Norton

Near Basin Lane, a tethered pony noses a circle of bare earth. Crystals of glass from a shattered windscreen sparkle in the gutter. On the pavement a huddle of boys: one in the middle, his hands cupped.
They crowd in to look, voices hushed, tone awed. What has he found? What has made them leave off tormenting cats, throwing stones at the mad woman’s door, setting fire to skips?

fluttering by
something never before seen
is caught and held


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