My Hometown

It looks like we have everything.

Though the police station isn’t always open. And the post office is closing.

But there’s a bus station if you want to leave.

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News On A Stairwell

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

News On A Stairwell

Sated on the stories of others,
fed in passing on casual affairs.
On stairwells, glancing,
their legible wares
are traded second hand
for faltering steps,
and behind hand murmurs
of shallow cares,
where dead unions play on,
play on, laughing.
In salacious nooks
their small town shagging
goes on, on walls,
spread everywhere.


©AndrewJamesMurray

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Slattocks Canal

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

Slattocks Canal

The sedentary

figure of a fisherman

by the redundant waterway.

Still nothing has he caught.

Could it be he’s been out-thought

by such a tiny brained foe?

— He doesn’t think so.

Beneath the carpet

of conquering weeds,

between the barbs

of needle-reeds,

their number is smaller;

the water shallower,

and strategically placed

shopping trolleys,

half-submerged,

contribute to the clogging

of this coagulated artery.

A train thunders past,

the fisherman shifts,

night drifts in, reluctant.

©AndrewJamesMurray

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