Michael Williamson: Two Poems

Morning Tea in the Garden   After the grass was raked, and the gardens done, our kitchen radio hectored bakelite news. The sea-green lino swayed deep kelps of light. Along the front lawn’s terrazzo tile path, red poppies, still aflame. Once picked, their ends were burnt for longer life in the sunlit vase.   From the grape arbour, his concrete path turned to the calsomine painted toilet by his shed. Blue-grey rosemary covered the clay-filled bomb-shelter trenches. On an old gramophone, amidst his tools, black vinyl songs crackled his universe. Heaven, yes, but he must have kept   his shed.…

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