A farmyard frolic with punctuation in poetry.

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Woolly white commas scatter,
distributing pauses among
ragged lines of trees while
cud-chewing semi-colons,
black and white and docile,
line up at dawn awaiting deployment.

Apostrophes fly and land at random among cabbages.
Fence post full-stops stamp down in regular intervals,
circumspective between wiry lengths of syntax.
Hills roll on unimpeded into the haze of distance.
No-one knows how to use punctuation anymore.

Jess is a writer and editor whose first poem was printed in her local paper in rural Australia when she was seven. She’s still writing.

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