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On Regarding a Distant Prospect of Oxford with Greyhound in Foreground on a Frosty Morning, by Shaun Belcher

This article is more than 19 years old

With every leaf and twig gilded with frost
And the park phosphorous in a pink dawn
The dog stands motionless, half dead
A sign for speed unread, unseen

And a dozen crows lift off behind it
Replaying a Breughel painting
And the air seems to vibrate with their wings
As silent you stand entranced, enmeshed

In a frame of the last century
Before the coronation or the foundry spat blood
Mincing your arm to a pulp
Between the stamping press's glittering steel

And now one-armed you stand beside your dog
Calling it to run headlong into history
On a morning when nothing much moves
Even the container lorries are stacked up at Dover

You both stand and glint on the edge of this city
Your boots glazed with the frost
The dog's blinking the only movement
It's heart racing, a suburban Stubbs

We are all glued to our place in the scheme
Like hares glued to the rails
You and I and that dog are measured by a painter's eye
as shares flicker on screens beyond us.

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