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  • DUMFRIES



    Summer in Dumfries


    There is a watery summer in Dumfries.
    We are sending up clouds of small town
    ill-feeling to block the sun,
    and while we slowly turn
    the colour we were before,
    our children gleam, white kneed,
    on trampolines,
    our terriers crap on putting greens,
    and the river passes, nonchalantly, by,
    carrying our bottles and kebab boxes,
    filled with messages for other cities,
    out to sea.

    I am sitting at the 'Mandy Jones
    is a Whoor' picnic table,
    rather than the 'Billy's a Fat Poof' one,
    where there is a huge herring gull
    scoffing cold chips.
    From here I can see
    the deserted ramparts of the crazy golf,
    and past languid spines of trees,
    the hard spires of another Dumfries,
    not necessarily a better one.

    Little mobs of pensioners pass,
    a thin girl on a bike,
    a man whistling a tune from 'Cats'.
    All this is astounding.
    While the birds hop assuredly between us,
    hunting, gathering,
    we are walking in the park wondering
    when Safeway shuts,
    how, in the absence of something,
    we are in Dumfries.

  • #2
    I like your poem....

    Anneli

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    • #3
      Pleasant thoughts

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