Poetry, stories and knitting


on February 10, 2012

Seven years since the war

had made no impression

the colours no imprint

on dull winter grey.

Six to a room, squeezed tightly,

England wasn’t ready

for white ankle-wrap wedged shoes,

red dresses at Trent Bridge,

where people gathered

to see amongst the colourless border

bizarre cocktails of yellows in May

whispering loud and bright.

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you

of things back then,

before the levels of frequency changed

and settled

to a hum,

an imitation stand back style

with conservative browns and bottle greens,

that challenged the notion of home.


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