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The wind on Brandon hill Waves the trees and there leaves go with it almost to open waters a beauty place: Where, from last centuries’ secret gardens rocks and colour-full and dark ever-greens, steeples and towers stick out – bunched between branches see magic glade in city air by day the windy paths and grasses peopled by lovers lunch-breakers dog-strollers and tea-takers –
The tower stands solid offering views to romantics and gazers
by night the grounds are still; great gothic tower looms – entrance gated staircase dank, turret-like spiralled full of whispers whilst moon spills ghosts onto the paths
Strength in the face of domesticity
meal time again and clean things are transformed again with mouthfuls and chit-chat or inner conversations. As if sloppily vacuumed food matter is removed from plate.
With full belly-ness there are moments of satisfaction.
now, crockery and cutlery cannot be just put back like that all slimey with sauce and carrion instead it must go to be renewed over at that big china white basin with chained plug and ugly hole
but who will renew? Not me –
surely not again?
but again, I must – every day every meal.
So tiring is this! This constant story of renewal this ruddy fairy-liquid ritual complete with intense hot-and-cold water dynamics, slippery object control and oil fiddly surfaces
I pray to the god of Personal Loans for an automated afterlife.
I would love to hear from anybody what they like and dislike about my poem.