The days spent in a
summer haze, lifting
up our entitled
polyethylene swords.
Counting the fainted
cracks in the floorboards,
abandoned by the
previous wasted
owner. Untitled.
Making ends meat by
barley existing.
A sixty-eight pence
pint of milk, some eggs,
the newest comic,
Mum's new black kettle.
Yellow plastic pegs,
we lob in nettle
bushes, lay trampled.
Painting the wall fence;
Before atomic
bondings or Newton:
a dumb example.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n). A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and deep longing for something, especially one's home in Wales; an ode to the loss of our homeland, our language and our traditions. •I update this quite infrequently :(•
