PLAYING SATURDAYS
The memories rise swiftly
From fine ghostly dust
Elixirs and tonics in cobwebby
cups
Images haunting and calling too
loud
Steel towns and saturdays
breaking through shrouds and,
I'm back there in dreamscapes
On the old cobbled bridge
Saturdays promised with pink
lipstick kiss
Ancient air...
Red bus rides there...
Calling men...
Bone china ware...
Baskets filled with oddsort cups
Just thrupence each Mrs,... step
on up,
Nan and I and mittened hands
Checkered coats and trinket
treats
Lemony wafts of fancy goods
Balaclavas, butchers meat
A steel town playing... saturday,
In market square
In waning light
Etched deep within a child's small
psych
Hands in gloves and gloves held
tight
Rain squalls, fish stalls
Take me back
To all the things I knew as home
To safety comfort simpler ways
To steel towns playing saturdays
Bring me home nan...
dewch a mi adref
M P 6/11/21
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Comments
Wonderful pome
Thankyou lovely man x
This is a beautiful poem! It conjures many great images. You've done it again, you've written a masterpiece!
I adore that line! The idea of the gloves somehow means that the child was loved a lot (so would holding hands of course, and who is to say that not holding hands would mean anything less). In writing poetry we need words and actions that tell the reader these things clearly so that the story is there between the lines as well as in the lines. The gloves on the hands in this case brings a whole lot of love to the piece. Gorgeous work Marion x
Wow...thankyou Tina. It was the love and safety I was trying to convey...my nan was always home to me ...the most loved human in my life before my children. I wasn't sure about the actual flow but I left it anyway as it was the bond I was trying to convey. Thankyou for picking up on that...I'm chuffed. More and more these days I have a need to be with her again...hugs 💖