stdClass Object
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    [ID] => 18303
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2017-09-28 16:34:18
    [post_date_gmt] => 2017-09-28 16:34:18
    [post_content] => The uneven rules, and the edges are
surplus to requirements. Link fences
sway, and pebbles crawl up to shape the path.
Boulders, too square and sure to belong here,
peer at the sea and squint earthwards, the sky
unnervingly bright today. They can’t believe
in something so lacking organisation;
clouds uncorralled, rain unrestrained, sun
defiant.

                  Sometimes, shipwrecks unsubmerge.

All this, shoring up a path that thinks of
forwards only, a flattened palm from whose edge,
we reel away, half trying to tip off
instead. The gritted-teeth hedgerow stops us,
kale, oxeye daisies, other gnarling things,
they hold the path’s side so hard, they hardly
have to grip at all. This stretch, running from
the eye, inhabited by the movers
and by the standers still, hinges itself
between the sometimes shrieking railway tracks
and the rabbling of stone into sea.
    [post_title] => The Stretch
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
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    [post_name] => the-stretch
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    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2017-09-28 16:34:18
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2017-09-28 16:34:18
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=18303
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
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        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2017
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is a highly commended in August challenge #1 on Young Poets Network (YPN) in 2017.

Judge Magnus Dixon commented, "This poem explores a place very literally on the edge; between ‘shrieking railway tracks and the rabbling of stone into sea.’  The poem explores this place in the fullest sense of the world, cutting through a tenacious and unruly landscape of ‘clouds uncorralled,’ ‘rain unrestrained’ and ‘gritted teeth hedgerows.’  and sampling native plants— painting the most common scrubland dense as an amazon of hidden treasures.  This is an edgeland so peripheral it tries to ‘tip off’ into the sea.  Maya is truly an explorer for our times."
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Highly commended, 2017 August challenge #1
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        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 13705
            [forename] => Maya
            [surname] => Little
            [title] => Maya Little
            [slug] => maya-little
            [content] => Maya is the 1st prize winner in the 16-18 age category in the Turn Up the Volume challenge on Young Poets Network, and is highly commended in the 2017 August challenge #1, themed around edgelands. She is also a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Bookshelf' poetry challenge.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 13705
    [forename] => Maya
    [surname] => Little
    [title] => Maya Little
    [slug] => maya-little
    [content] => Maya is the 1st prize winner in the 16-18 age category in the Turn Up the Volume challenge on Young Poets Network, and is highly commended in the 2017 August challenge #1, themed around edgelands. She is also a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Bookshelf' poetry challenge.
)

The Stretch

Maya Little

The uneven rules, and the edges are
surplus to requirements. Link fences
sway, and pebbles crawl up to shape the path.
Boulders, too square and sure to belong here,
peer at the sea and squint earthwards, the sky
unnervingly bright today. They can’t believe
in something so lacking organisation;
clouds uncorralled, rain unrestrained, sun
defiant.

                  Sometimes, shipwrecks unsubmerge.

All this, shoring up a path that thinks of
forwards only, a flattened palm from whose edge,
we reel away, half trying to tip off
instead. The gritted-teeth hedgerow stops us,
kale, oxeye daisies, other gnarling things,
they hold the path’s side so hard, they hardly
have to grip at all. This stretch, running from
the eye, inhabited by the movers
and by the standers still, hinges itself
between the sometimes shrieking railway tracks
and the rabbling of stone into sea.