An HB-shaded sky
dulls-down the day
and a surgical-steel wind
dissects us.
Expenditure cuts,
job losses,
frowns and hunched shoulders – these
are the common currency
of this dismal car park.
All Hallow’s Moon
has still to run its course,
yet Autumn’s glow is fading and
stone-cold gutters are already gathering
the rustling modesty of naked trees.
Evidence of life, it seems,
is reduced to a game
of vehicular Russian Roulette,
played out by two small,
speckled birds,
twittering on the asphalt.
~~~
—Chris Wardle
Chris Wardle is finding his voice late in life. Currently resident in Oxford, but with his heart firmly attached to Pakistan, this development worker and student of Permaculture is constantly surprised and delighted by the people, places and things which inspire his poetic outpourings.