The Woodyard
Writing from Art – a visit to the Wilson March 2017
Red tiles, over red brick
Some more orange, others dirty brown
The roof top sagging
Under weight of baked clay
Keeping assorted timber dry
It warped and yearned
Until men built of muscle came
Sweat slicked
Even in cold grey months
They move and shift each piece
Again and again
As each makes it’s circuit
From green wood to ready timber
No bowing is allowed
Beyond the little yard
Docks sprawl
At it’s back the city, trussed
But busseling with the clamour of the day
Not yet fulling grown from it’s township
Soon the time of metal will be
And the sagging roofs will sag to collapse
Boards rotting
Homes to nothing but beetles
And stray cats.
Posted: Thursday, March 11th, 2021 @ 3:21 pm
Categories: From Art, Poems.
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