The Move Poem by Barbara Nixon

The Move

Biting, squalid, pitch hued November morn,
concrete pavement, hopscotch feet
dancing merrily o'er white chalked squares
not a care but for the moment,
haven of innocence and juvenile dares.

A wearisome mother in step with petulant brother
toting boxes and cases o'er sleet battered cobbles
clutching fiercely paltry worldly treasures
expressionless faces, resigned, automatons,
far cry from habitual good natured squabbles.

Jess, the old mutt, still chained to the fence
a token last protest from a canine suffragette,
liberated, now bouncing into the rear of the van
stacked high with all manner of household contraption
on threadbare old blankets his caninity now rests.

Three pairs of eyes peer fixedly through the windows
as the van moves cantankerously along the well worn road
old house standing stoically amongst its companion stragglers
like sporadic teeth in a gaping decayed mouth
mother sheds a tear and brother blasts the radio to lighten the load.

by Barb