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Wastelands
Wastelands
Canal side moorings and old mills
Stretch their northern roots into the collapsed rubble
Of Industrialised wreckage
Overgrown with harsh grass and weeds
An old man sits at the side of the grey water
And dips a hopeful line into its murky depths
There are parts of old bikes and shopping trolleys
Poking from the surface like Leviathan bones
Paths ...
Tuesday 12th May 2020 12:57 pm
Last Orders
Last Orders
I come on Thursday, sit on wooden chair
where poets congregate in strange half light,
sharing their thoughts with those who gather there -
the words are spoken, soaring, shining bright,
warming us as we leave to face the night.
The bear pit darkens, but forever hosts
the rhyming, raging, ranting, Tudor ghosts.
Thursday 20th November 2014 7:19 pm
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