stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 18679
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2018-01-31 18:02:05
    [post_date_gmt] => 2018-01-31 18:02:05
    [post_content] => birds pick their way through windswept heather, and feathers
tread desire paths through the air. under wingbeats
light emulsifies mist, a mistaken ghost, lingering. children talk
of plague pits, not here, but everywhere.
beneath its centuries london is essentially
a grave. black is older than their voices: blæc. i hear
bleak, imagine dew on the bone-sharp beaks of
crows, nosing at what is left on gibbets. or i hear
                blác. adjective: bright, flashing, pale. bleached, maybe.
think of how the grass gleams violet in summer, flashes
under june skies, when rainbow
kites take up the birds’ paths, and the yellow adolescence of gorse
                proves monochromes false. everywhere i look i see colour.
how daisies perch between rotting poppy heads, how the tarmac
                thread of the roman road translates into
endless legions of traffic. flowers in the pockmarked dips.
the dirty amber of the highwayman fox seen late
at night on guy fawkes’ beneath the fireworks. blæc or bleak or blác:
                how can one word contain this? but then the mist melts, and
the november ground where we never buried anything sprouts
the dark bodies of crows, black on frost-pale grass. all i hear
                is bird noises. the wind. and the oldest name
                my ears can recognise. this: the heath’s sibilant rustle—
hiss—whisper—hiss—hiss—
    [post_title] => blackheath
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => blackheath
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2019-01-17 10:34:29
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2019-01-17 10:34:29
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=18679
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2018
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is a runner-up in the Namedropping challenge with charity People Need Nature and poet Jen Hadfield on Young Poets Network (YPN) in 2018.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Runner-up, Namedropping challenge
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 17076
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Ella Standage
            [slug] => ella-standage
            [content] => Ella is a top 15 winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2017 and 2015, and a commended Foyle Young Poet in 2016. Ella is the first-prize winner of the Bletchley Park challenge on Young Poets Network, as well as the W. S. Graham challenge as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations. Ella is the second-prize winner in Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK, and in the Riddle Me This challenge. Ella is also a runner-up in the Namedropping challenge; commended in the Ways to be Wilder poetry challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield; commended in the I Am the Universe challenge; commended in the Wish List challenge; and a winner in the Winter Poems challenge and in the 2016 August Challenge #2. 
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17076
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Ella Standage
    [slug] => ella-standage
    [content] => Ella is a top 15 winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2017 and 2015, and a commended Foyle Young Poet in 2016. Ella is the first-prize winner of the Bletchley Park challenge on Young Poets Network, as well as the W. S. Graham challenge as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations. Ella is the second-prize winner in Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK, and in the Riddle Me This challenge. Ella is also a runner-up in the Namedropping challenge; commended in the Ways to be Wilder poetry challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield; commended in the I Am the Universe challenge; commended in the Wish List challenge; and a winner in the Winter Poems challenge and in the 2016 August Challenge #2. 
)

blackheath

Ella Standage

birds pick their way through windswept heather, and feathers
tread desire paths through the air. under wingbeats
light emulsifies mist, a mistaken ghost, lingering. children talk
of plague pits, not here, but everywhere.
beneath its centuries london is essentially
a grave. black is older than their voices: blæc. i hear
bleak, imagine dew on the bone-sharp beaks of
crows, nosing at what is left on gibbets. or i hear
                blác. adjective: bright, flashing, pale. bleached, maybe.
think of how the grass gleams violet in summer, flashes
under june skies, when rainbow
kites take up the birds’ paths, and the yellow adolescence of gorse
                proves monochromes false. everywhere i look i see colour.
how daisies perch between rotting poppy heads, how the tarmac
                thread of the roman road translates into
endless legions of traffic. flowers in the pockmarked dips.
the dirty amber of the highwayman fox seen late
at night on guy fawkes’ beneath the fireworks. blæc or bleak or blác:
                how can one word contain this? but then the mist melts, and
the november ground where we never buried anything sprouts
the dark bodies of crows, black on frost-pale grass. all i hear
                is bird noises. the wind. and the oldest name
                my ears can recognise. this: the heath’s sibilant rustle—
hiss—whisper—hiss—hiss—