Track, track, track. Those little red brick bungalows Allotments and flats Suburbs and leaves Track, track, track. Get out of the city, The sun on a hill, Cow, cow, sheep, Old man reads Backpacker sleeps. Track, track, track, Hedgerow, Corn row, Hedgerow, The sea. I’m gone, gone, gone, Or going back, back, back Forest, flowers
Tag: Poetry
My libraries were never silent They were rarely even quiet When the kids came down from the flats because they had never held a book someone else hadn’t read before them they would chatter and their mothers would scold I wish I could say I never minded Never judged those who came in and only
I am abrasive. I am armed to the teeth with knives of hand and mind and fangs and quips behind these lips so it can be unwise to tell me to smile. So despite a love/hate relationship with the word I have an abrasive personality, But then I came by it honestly. I inherited it
There are contrasts and you’ve got to laugh. I am nearly finished university, brushing out my hair at the top of the stairs, the longest it has been in eight years when the boy I had first cut it all off for walks by. He hadn’t noticed at the time. When the man who tried
This would feel like the middle of a beautiful friendship if I wasn’t explaining where I’ve been – again and this might take a good few lines. See, I know I didn’t say goodbye, I do that, I’m sorry. Ask people who use to know me. I just drop off the face of the earth
So with New Years 2012, the question is if the Mayan calendar thing is true and we only have a few days left, what do we want to do with it? Which is a terrible question really because let’s be honest; everyone is sick of hearing how the world is going to end. It seems like every six
