There are those who wear hats whilst walking their dogs in villages.A Poem by BeccyThere is a plumpness in the air, that says we never lack two Sundays in a week; and there is the surety of God's acre stretching greenly. An unspoken suspicion that it's all fake news, CGI conjured and served from breakfast to supper, the only reality being the barking of contented dogs and the comforting presence of other like minded souls. The walk is measured, assuredness of a full belly and the scented pleasure of newly mown grass, contained and encapsulated in the liturgical drone of boundaried village sights and sounds; the sweet song of larks, ancient oaks bronzing, the norman church that has stood for centuries, but perhaps no longer stands for very much at all. Soon enough, the walk is over, a last footstep echoes. Guilty thoughts rise, only to be cast aside as the insularity expands, searching for, but never quite reaching the edge of the village; as those who wear hats whilst walking their dogs count up their blessings and reckon the odds. Overhead of course, the birds still fly to preordained destinations. Formations sensing the winds of change, the beating of wings no less regular than the rhythm of the till in the corner shop as it salts away the fruits of casual largesse; whilst somewhere, somewhere that is not really so very far away, a child lies in hungry sleep, dreaming of a comfort that never comes.
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Added on July 6, 2018Last Updated on July 6, 2018 AuthorBeccyUnited KingdomAboutI'm forty four, single and have a lovely fifteen year old son called Charlie. I've been writing poetry and short stories since I can remember. I have always been an assiduous reader of poetry and real.. more..Writing
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