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THE YARDS

Ferguson, thirty years old

in his first floor room

pulls back the grey lace at the window.

Out there the railway yards

metal sinews etched in slag and rain

morose with burden

fretting in the disorderly queues of

 puffing and clanking engines.

 

He replaces the lace across the evenings' unwelcoming face.

 

On a good day he can watch cattle trucks

vegetables in crates. coal in silver sun heaps

and always the sulphur smell sickly with its yellow pallor.

 

Now though                        sleep beckons him

and the men are blending into night

with dark purpose.

Ferguson has used up the last of the day's promises

with a mood to match.....

a drizzle starts

dimpling the window.

 

He lies back on the bed with his shoes on

and listens to the hiss of the rain

and the drudgery of the yards.

                    -O-

 

Ferguson, seventy eight years old

stepped out to the supermarket

with its edgy cars compressed

and the trolleys, personal cages of produce

clamour and fuss where once the rails lay,

 a lost figure with his snails' pace.

 

The route back took him face to face with the window

now diamond UPVC

stunning white, no trace of sulphur

as it stared back through time.

 

◄ IN THE VALLEYS

THE INSECTS ►

Comments

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Tom Harding

Fri 28th Aug 2015 16:20

Ray this is really great. I am absolutely there, in both scenes. You traverese time beautifully with wonderful economy of description too.

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Stu Buck

Fri 28th Aug 2015 15:15

the loss of culture as told through one mans life. even more poignant that he didn t seem to appreciate it while it was there. i have just written a piece about the same thing. lovely stuff.

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raypool

Fri 28th Aug 2015 14:09

That's very nice to know and that my work hits the spot with you - particularly lovely that it is backed up by knowledge of the person writing it too!!
I'm quite inspired at the moment and I hope you are too - always reaching out and only as far in as is necessary for the source. Ray

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