Posted by Admin on 31 January 2009, 12:00 am
The draggled day had drawn
a blanket (tatty remnant of
Atlantic storms) to hide its head –
its tarnished pewter seascape
gale-goaded, ragged edged.
Some seagulls, head to wind in fields
a plough had lately louvred, held,
all mute, a Quakers’ meeting.
Dun mast in dreary plenitude
lay scattered under dripping oaks.
The Kingston smoke-stack belched a black
funereal pall – an omen of
its own impending doom.
At hand, a football match lacked verve –
protagonists and parti-colouring
alike subdued by mizzle, mud,
and ambient gloom.
T. C. Hudson
© T. C. Hudson.
Village
Parish Council