Migrating Season

Fifth time in five years and like always

days dragged their feet then sprinted,

until with the shrivelled fruit of August

I am sweating boxes, dripping saucepans

to another crater of this city.

Heat bears down, desk fan churns but

missing this place? Its panorama of bins,

the guy who daily examines his dick, thick pink

sky icing slender terraces – that comes and it goes.

Worst of all the kind of stomach pit,

brain ache missing right before you leave

a place and you’re packing up, boxed in

by things that don’t much matter, looking out

of a window you’ve never even cleaned.

Published by Ruth Beddow

Poet, writer and heritage professional based in London, UK.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: