Nothing Remarkable

I wrote this in the heat of July in the Spanish hills. I thought it might bring a glow now that we are to have an Arctic blast.

Nothing Remarkable Happens

Away from the furnace
In this greenish gloom
In this dusty coolness
In this quiet exhaustion
Beneath the panting holly oaks;

Only the little adventures
Of numberless small legs
As they rummage and rustle
Through the shrivelled layers.

Even when Hannibal came this way
They noticed only a deepening shade
From the tender spread
Of an elephant foot,

And some while later
The precisely placed hoof
Of a Moorish pony.


About Harry Nicholson

I'm an enameller who works with a kiln, fusing pictures in glass onto copper. I write a few poems and short stories. There is an eBook anthology of them, 'Green Linnet' on Amazon. Also a novel, 'Tom Fleck', set in the North of England of 1513 - the year of Flodden. A sequel to 'Tom Fleck' is 'The Black Caravel' published in 2016. My anthology of poems came out in 2015: 'Wandering About.' I've a blog of poems, stories and art at:
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