We take slow trains to London moving clack-
clack past back door and yards sculpted in junk
with treasure troves of things they thought they loved;
sheds and beds and secret hiding places,
biding spaces where a subtle peace comes
in the company of tools, and little
pieces of life spool out in dormant dreams
of better vegetables and jobs not got.
Coffee cups unwashed gather dry dust of
fading wishes. From inside the train's fug
I send a passing hug to denizens
of suburbia; all the dads and mums,
toddlers and teenagers building artful
lives amidst those backyard boneyards of hope.
Yup! Another poem I can't fault. Loved the internal ryhme. Outstanding. I say again - when's the book available?
Terrific - since my first appalled sight of London's backyards from the train I've wanted to feel this way about them rather than depressed - congratulations! And thanks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i've seen those yards and appreciate the positive aspects...the quaintness, the living part of life. strong work. -Tailor