A poem The old grammar schoolin the centre of townher bricks came tumbling downas felled treesconcrete rising rapidly from the rubblequick growing silver birches which burst the suburban bubblethey nest new neighboursoutside the windowtheir worry perches squeaking at dawnin some unknown avian song“they don’t belong”said Mr Quo, to Mrs Quo, reciprocated “first, this, then that.Continue reading “Construction in Progress”
Poetry, and other thoughts, by Darius the Mate
nicecissist 