Winter in England
A poem about nature, culture, and how very soggy England can be.
Air
of ice and tobacco,
keeping warm with hot tea
and cigarettes,
dry reddened fingertips
and bleeding lips.
All stood softly glancing
at the new fresh paint coat,
brushed blank white over
our earth,
iced daisy
protected, preserved in clear resin-
until our dirty shoes
our hasty legs
flatten and smear
the display of life
crush
into the floor
disappear
with the heat of bodies,
the force of feet
polystyrene squeak cry
we juice each flake into
opaque greying mush
warm brown bubbling water,
to reveal the familiar greys hidden,
our blocky wonky pavements
imprinted dead worms
beheaded twitching daisies,
Watery slippery slop.
About the Creator
One Unchecked Box
"Republished" because it was the only way to add the embed for the newly recorded audio version of this story due to the Top Story badge. Plus it serves as a nice, informal announcement of the podcast's revival for another season (go subscribe!):
By Stephen A. Roddewiga day ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Very imaginative use of words with your English wintery mix.