5a to Wrecsam.
Dandy in sour uric cloud
with worn out violet scarf.
Us two perched
on swung down seats
before him,
his white long baby hair
testifying. Quiet.
I clutch yellow bar
and lean
head forward
with eyes blurred
and stung. Done in.
Loop of Station Rd
almost has me over
at Rhiwabon.
We've been "doing" this one in our cottage reading group. There is a contention that the sharp tang of the sour uric cloud has so pervaded the milieu as to create (well, exacerbate, but that begs the question of the creating) a sort of existential exhaustion/malaise. And indeed that sounds fair enough. Or can it be the trials of the travel (the creating)?.
ReplyDeleteIt could also be the expectation of the travails to come. The bus was for the train home.
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