John Baldwin

To Much Time On My Hands - Poem by John Baldwin

Beneath the weight of London’s streets,
Where aged sinews pulse and beat,
Down below old blitz kreig fodder,
Beneath the lines that tube trains follow,
In earthen pits of crumpled bone,
That decaying bare ill fruit and grow,
Around amongst the roots of trees,
Which suckle on their crimson feed,
Beneath rubber wheel and toot of horn,
Under strike of sole and paving stone,
In diggers jaws of crunching teeth,
That allow perhaps a fleeting glimpse,
Of spirit and a victims guts,
Of air raid brick and Anderson nuts,
Exhumed for only daylight minutes,
By hard hat wearing high viz jackets,
Only then once being chewed,
Into the earth reintroduced,
Without ceremony or hint of feeling
Just an epitaph devoid of meaning

Comments about To Much Time On My Hands by John Baldwin

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Sunday, February 10, 2008

Poem Edited: Sunday, March 15, 2009

[Report Error]