Posts tagged ‘work’

13/10/2013

Commuters

 

I’ll see her standing in the rain.
The place, the time: they never change.
She hugs her bag in front of her,
Her toes are on the yellow line.

It’s rare to see her raise her head.
On days like this her hair is wet
And darker than its usual brown.
She stares on to the tracks, unmoved.

For years we’ve shared the same routine:
She stands, I wait – anticipate
Her being there, existing there –
A confirmation of our lives,

And how our lives are drifting by.
Her toes are on the yellow line.

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

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13/10/2013

Broken

 

He broke his journey on that day.

No reason why, no thought before,

He simply picked his bag and left,

Four stops before the usual place.

 

And still without a question raised

He left the station, walked into

The town whose name he’d always seen

But never thought a real place.

 

He wandered on without a goal,

Just looking at the streets and shops,

And people on their way to work,

And none of it made any sense.

 

He stopped and stared up at the sky.

Same sky, same day: different life.

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

12/05/2013

Time Planners

 

Were we to run the clocks instead,

We’d plan the world as dreamers do,

With moments set aside for sleep,

The rest carved up for us to use.

 

The hardest hours would be the ones

Where necessary chores were shared.

Remunerations would be paid

In week-ends stretching on for months.

 

And soon we’d lose all sense of time,

And clocks would tick ‘til batteries died,

And light and night would merge and mix.

 

And soon we’d lose all sense of us,

As married day and married dark,

Would form our perfect, timeless heart.