Dabble with poetry. Like to do open mics around Yorks and Lincs.
Crossing Holderness by Bus A long wait ahead for the replacement bus ours has overheated. The iron of a bench griddles my legs the sun is high and hot, energy sapping hot but there’s a tree offering shade. I stand reading a book – Tom Paulin poetry retreating from the sun into his reality. He was First Division before there was a Premier League and knows how to write – this is rare. At my feet cigarette ends, an ant scuttling my sandal and encroaching light as cool shade retreats. I sit at the front – shady side glancing from Holderness fields to Belfast poetry Belfast poetry to Holderness fields ‘Thank God for the bus pass.’ A whirligig of young girls’ squirling swirling pigs’ tail giggling invades my ears. I tear a tissue in half suck each half into a ball stuff my ears to shut off the chit chat. I cannot bear the pathos - behind the tinsel worldliness they are innocent and young. A certain sundering will come. It is tapping even now discreetly tenderly at the pane of imagination. A tree branch rattling in the breeze. The time will come for kissing and cuddling innocent fumbling coupling and sleeping waking to motherhood. Ceaseless watching over squealing squirling swirling mothers-in-waiting of their own. That tearing, grunting, sundering blood pain by which the world renews. The old songs replayed. The old tales retold. They tumble the stairs. They are laughing.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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