Welcoming the pitter patter of rain
we pull on our boots
walking hunchacked under looming clouds
the voices of builders amongst the bangs and drills
clipped in our cotton wooled ears Bleating absences sheepishly grey in our years
And through the hustle and bustle Depression whistles
as if through the teeth of a biting wind
Our noses cold, dripping with the tumble of leaves
Centipedes scratching at the leather of our boots
looking for crevices to dig through.
This is for W3
We were twine o’ thread knottin’ time
bent us snaggle toothed spines needlin’ at the grind
We were fusty with British stiff upper lip
with sabre toothed vanity, mining us extraterrestrial in coal an’ lime needlin’ at the grind
We dreamed o’ greenin’ the land
cigarettes chained to us ‘ands needlin’ at the grind
We erased that which we wished to glimpse
In a trailblaze of exhaust fumes, steerin’ the grind
We extolled the land by mouth
And demarcated it with the other ‘and steelin’ uselve’s fer the grind
An attempt at this week’s W3
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 