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Boneyards

Rating: 4.9

We take slow trains to London moving clack-
clack past back door and yards sculpted in junk
with treasure troves of things they thought they loved;
sheds and beds and secret hiding places,
biding spaces where a subtle peace comes
in the company of tools, and little
pieces of life spool out in dormant dreams
of better vegetables and jobs not got.
Coffee cups unwashed gather dry dust of
fading wishes. From inside the train's fug

I send a passing hug to denizens
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Tailor Bell 10 October 2006

i've seen those yards and appreciate the positive aspects...the quaintness, the living part of life. strong work. -Tailor

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Yup! Another poem I can't fault. Loved the internal ryhme. Outstanding. I say again - when's the book available?

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Michael Shepherd 16 May 2005

Terrific - since my first appalled sight of London's backyards from the train I've wanted to feel this way about them rather than depressed - congratulations! And thanks.

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