#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook sludge pears

The toy stall was where you found the things.
migrated to the garage when you weren't looking
because you hadn't demonstrated interest in play.
And carrier bags of comics.

....

For years I wondered what specialness lay
beyond the sun and rain of the everyday,
with occasional banking of fog that crawled
inland from the sea, or the sometime snow.
A sort of greyness like pears in tinned milk,
comforting, if not exciting, marks
living in a never flooding holme.

.....

A sort of greyness like pears in tinned milk
appeared with the sludge of roadside leaves.
Comforting perhaps, that the days grow
shorter, and we might have something to look
back upon. Yet being in a place with a name
one has to spell to strangers, only reinforced
the fact of being trapped in hedged roads.
Yes, beyond the ditch the apples grew fat
and within the walking distance of the row
you might perfume your tongue with all
the variety of a graft. But not a library,
not a telephone number of more than three
digits, just the sinking feeling of being
somewhere beyond reach, and just in time
for Christmas.

....

A sort of greyness, like tinned pears in cream,
appeared with the wet sludge of roadside leaves.
Comforting perhaps, to see the days shrink
and offer that we may look back. But there,
in a place with a name one had to spell
to strangers, only reinforced the fact
of being trapped by hedged roads and dikes.
Somewhere beyond, with no need to drive through,
or even to see, though lacking somewhat
the anonymity of a terrace,
for at least there was hope that someone
in search of apples or eggs might stray.

....

A sort of greyness, like tinned pears in cream
appeared with the wet sludge of roadside leaves -
comforting perhaps, like the variated perfume
of the apple's varied graft.

....

A sort of mellow greyness, like tinned pears
in cream, appeared with the sludge of roadside
leaves. Comforting perhaps,

.....