by Anne Britting Oleson

In the shop off Leg O' Mutton Street
the counter girl cuts me slivers
of cheddar: port wine with
tiny veins like heart's blood;
apple-smoked from a farm
not two miles away;
a slice from a hard wheel
speckled with chives and garlic.
I come away to trudge
the winding path up the Tor,
two bottles of cider clinking
companionably in my pack.
Perhaps it's sacrilege of sorts,
but when I circle the group
offering their divining rods
to the ley lines, frowning
in fierce mystical concentration,
I'm only looking for a place
overlooking Chalice Hill to spread out
my repast—I'm only looking
to eat Glastonbury whole.

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