No Name Joe
By Silver Spun Sand
- 8731 reads
Pumps water
from the well,
nice and slow;
drenches his shirt –
smells of petrol
driven mowers,
cigarettes – piles
of rotting leaves.
Sweat trickles
down the back
of his neck –
makes me shiver;
doffs his cap,
as I watch him
lay the hedge
along the field;
fancy...
this afternoon
we might bruise
the dew-damp vetch –
trample down
some nettles.
Can fair taste
his skin;
tanned,
weathered;
calloused hands
that smell of tallow
and wood-smoke.
He’d call me
‘his Lily Rose’,
as close to my lips
as a man could be;
the timbre of his tone –
gritty as the floor
of a downtown dive,
and his eyes –
a mossy pool.
How I long to jump
straight in,
and then we’d lie
in the meadow,
where dogs bark,
far off; where trains
chatter past – way
in the distance,
and his name –
whispered
by thistle-down
as it blows.
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Comments
This is remarkable from
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very beautiful and powerful
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truly appreciable.. sooooo
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Full of yearning and
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Extremely beautiful Tina, I
k.
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Wauw!! where can I meet this
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Very sweet, and i love the
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new Silver-Spun-Sand A
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I find the poem a bit
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I am Dutch and when I
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I saw the same film!And
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I saw the same film!And
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Of course it was, I could
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Of course it was, I could
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I enjoyed tremendously this
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Wonderful, wonderful poem, I
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