Love in Puddles

by John Stocks


You begin where my beginning ends,
Teaching me a sense of place that blew in
With my consciousness, teaching me
Mischief Night, bonfires and Halloween,
Obscure fag-ends of winter afternoons,
Isherwoods chip shop, a seven-penny mix
Steaming from the back copies of the Guardian,
A stench of leaves from the old cut locks
Clogged with leaves and random detritus,
Love in puddles, huddled in the bus stop.

You begin where my beginning ends,
Songs of Praise when Advent slipped in
The remedial room that stank to high heaven,
Everything given, a gift of sorts,
The primordial soup of poetry.

Scents, images, embedded in my DNA
All carried in my slouch, in my stoop,
In my confused and in my angry looks
In words that slowly creep across the page,
Words like fog over plains, stubble burning
Words that free-wheel cycle down country lanes
Or rise like miasma from flooded drains.


Copyright © 2013 by John Stocks

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