Posted in POETRY

The Moon is Misplaced

A day out at uni wi fruit shop 252

Wooden benches under white blossom trees,

a slimming world sign – newly hung,  over daffodils –

scattered and bent on a roadside bank.

Pavements  crawl with naked legs,

white dimpled hunks of flesh – oil slicked.

And the people –

the people are slow in motion.

Bicycles and  haircuts and pastel shorts

rip up the road in ribbons of rainbow

And through my sunglasses – I see sunglasses.

Heat stretches the benches –

slats  are filled with bums and thighs

and shiny magazine sheen,

and fallen adverts;

a spa springtime treat for £59 falls

under an old oak tree,

as old as the grey derelict hospital that stands

as still as stone. I smell horse dung.

And the farmers farm and the farm machinery,

and the cows – right before the greasy smell

of Thursday special – Sausage Supper for £2.50.

The horses reflect in the chippy window.

And on the horizon, the moon is misplaced.

While kids on scooters, scoot

around an immaculately groomed roundabout.

surrounded by wooden benches

under white blossom trees.

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Author:

Writer and Poet. MLitt Creative Writing BA Hons English Literature

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