My Poetry: I Think of Her

I Think of Her

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Sat listening to Billy,
ensconced in pub,
watching afternoon busses
through squared glass
pass pedestrians and bikes
along exhausted streets;
I feel the need to return
back home to her side,
leave these half started
monochrome days, sketched
with discontented pencils-
days erased by rising sun
only to repeat again, again, again.
And you continue to sing
but, oh Billy what strange fruits
this town bares, bowl empty
with promises unredeemed
by those naked branches,
sedate till next harvest?
What crop awaits I, a seed of
broken teen condom-
guess i was a fighter, once,
eager to escape captivity
of eternal holy womb, but
now I want to return,
to the mute Autumn colours
of a farming county
I grew through childhood with,
to her rattling chest, which
sings out mournful psalms
which date before black books of tradition
took its toil and toll
on her ancestor's bodies.
Home, where life taps her shoulder
as if to say
you are next to be served
in endless death queue.