Wednesday, June 14, 2017

James Walton #62 In that lucky country




scales fall from brightness
as armour is stripped
those weary eyelids
now closed and bloodied
on the fishmonger’s apron

where the icy night
is broken by the mallet’s
iron call to vigilance
a nightwatchman waits
outside the minimum wage

a shift of lonely children
gets in a charity’s breakfast
weasel words swell
in the society of needles
a luxury of employ lures

all baits finally exhausted
a rooster yodels three times
in water too cold to bathe
the angler turns about to call
on the floor hope still flaps




5 comments:

  1. Does it make me wrong to feel for hope?

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    Replies
    1. The hope is us, unstoppable, inexorable.

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  2. Marvelous, James. And multi-dimensional. As if a movie were kaleidoscopic. How it fractures and unites.

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    Replies
    1. Thanks Rob! I was hoping for some noir tones.

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  3. Wonderful poem James - my favourite for quite a while :)

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