This gate
Has dropped a hinge
Tilted off centre
Grounded on its side,
Scored a path,
A grooved arc
Where anything
Might slip through.
Even when in place
It was a trial.
A shoulder gate
My Dad called it,
Slapdash farming
Like a dirty yard.
Even dung should
Have its place.
Not here
Better round the roses.
Sometimes I am
Comforted by the commonplace.
JL 23 Nov 2011. 12:35
Some readers have been worried by my insomnia. The time that appears on the blog is not neccessarily the time that I posted it. In future I will add a time to the date. Worry not I am usually abed by eleven and not prone to blogging through the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment