SENTINEL POETRY (ONLINE) #14     JANUARY 2004

JOHN THOMSON


TEN YEARS AFTER

In the wastes of suburbia
time is the common enemy
as unknown weeds and stress cracks
grapple pebble dash normality.
Beyond the brick red rooftops
the grey fog which lives near
the boat infested canal
smiles grimly in the smoky air.
The room is now rearranged
Bed moved, lamp gone, colder
than usual. Nothing much changed.
Only me. And I have grown old...
The downstairs morning bustle
intensifies. Early as ever, prompt
and punctual. The small window brings
breakfast smells from coffee stalls.
A black clothed Sunday silence
crawls empty streets and disperses
in the stony bells of a churchyard
and the past slowly, slowly emerges ...

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