Poetry Blogs (day 11)

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Grit

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Grit

 

I cannot say for certain where I’m ‘from’

beyond the day I crawled into this world

and that’s the way I like it, truth be told,

to shape my own existence from the start.

 

That blond boy there with freckles and basin cut,

a shy one, wearing simple NHS specs,

in clothes bought big so he could grow

to fill them on a diet of Yorkshire pud.

 

An artist’s bent...

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