The Shell
By John Thornfield
- 349 reads
Light cascades into the shell of the old sorting depot
Revealing the interior
After so many days of fog and rain
And melancholy and the draining away of hope
That comes with October. There are
Pigeons all over the place - the stairways
Are thick with their cooing.
Their shit trickles down every wall.
Someone called Suger has tagged the upper floors.
Someone else has drawn a face.
Forge, Buzz and Phink were all here at some point.
So few of them - a testament to the risk.
Anybody waiting on the platform
Would rather stare at their phones
Or read the free paper than look,
Or else they gaze through it or around it
To the houses of Totterdown,
The funny little roads
That my children are learning.
I guess it says more in its ruin
Than anyone can bear to hear
So early on a Monday morning.
- Log in to post comments
Comments
Forensic levels of
Forensic levels of observation to very good effect. It's funny how we can see something everyday but never really look, isn't it. Thank you for posting this poem
- Log in to post comments