The Yard
The weeds are cramped in;
boisterous fingers curved around
empty glass bottles
climbed with mildew, fudged with rain.
They shiver –
the frizzing of their hair
swamped with the near October;
a place where yellow sleeps in grey.
The gate is winced in tight;
the cord around the bolt,
wet raw. Over the wall
a tree leans, sodden.
There is the porridge scratch
sound of a ball being kicked,
bouncing in a puddle -
a red graze, singed with mud
and a boy who shouts.
A plastic bag is pulled this way
and that,
sacked in the distance
of the ice cream van turning
onto a street, the tick
of the engine
waiting.
The cold is here;
static and unprepared,
here to stay,
cling silent –
fat from your windowsill,
the days twisting
like litter
slapped sore with autumn.
Marianne Louise Daniels
Thu 4th Oct 2012 11:45
Thank you for your time and comments, I am humbled by your thoughts x