Sounds like Friday

13 October 2018

Post-work growls of wind make the garden wave for attention;
privet casts salt over its many shoulders,
willow moshes like a gangly teen
and apple throws leaves like fat darts. Consequently,
the scabs of trees litter the lawn like the spoils of weather’s war.
A distressed pair of trainers refuse to find their way into the dustbin,
girls reminisce about the smell of visited bedrooms,
tread around around the eggshells of a first ‘shut up’
thrown at an adult.
In the kitchen, the need for nourishment mothers
the swish and clatter of invention;
the spiky tak, tak of carrots being dismembered,
the copperish ploing of their rolling bones hitting the pan.
I wish I could forget your face,
forgive your grammar,
flick the chips from your shoulder,
halt the trains of futures now scorning the standards of time.

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